Harry Potter and the Exiled Slayer
by M. Scott Eiland
Summary: Faith departs from Sunnydale after disposing of Mr. Trick, and wanders for months before meeting someone who has more in common with her than she would have expected. BtVSHP crossover.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Faith departs from Sunnydale after disposing of Mr. Trick, and wanders for months before meeting someone who has more in common with her than she would have expected. BtVS/HP crossover. 

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters portrayed here, they remain the property of their respective owners/creators.

Rating: T, for violence, intensity, and general themes.

Time Frame: Third season BtVS, AU from the point when Faith Slays Trick in "Consequences," and intersecting with the HP timeline just after the end of "Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince." (spoilers!)

Archiving: Be my guest, but e-mail me to let me know. . .I like to know where stuff I write ends up and I might want to see what else you've got.

Dedication: To Sibling—who has long been among my most loyal and enthusiastic fans—and who won a little contest I held on my Yahoo! Group, for which the prize was to be a fic written with his choice of primary characters. He made a couple of suggestions, the best of which—as far as me writing a story based on it, in any event—could be summed up as follows: "Harry and Faith have a lot in common, and might be rather good for each other." I agreed—the result is this story.

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART ONE

Mr. Trick's eyes widened. "Oh no." He shook his head in disbelief as he muttered, "No, this is no good at all."

Buffy stared in shock as the nattily-dressed vampire burst into ashes and the pressure from the cord around her throat diminished. The dust dispersed, and she saw Faith standing there, still holding the stake that had saved Buffy's life. The eyes of the Slayers met, and Buffy was still trying to read the emotion in them when Faith moved almost faster than Buffy's still-diminished perceptions could follow. Buffy felt a sharp blow at the point of her chin, then knew nothing.

Faith looked down at Buffy's crumpled form and sighed, then picked the older Slayer up in a fireman's carry. She looked around for a bit, then found what she expected to find: a recent model Mercedes parked next to a minivan. _Didn't think the conceited bloodsucker would bother to walk all the way down here—he had expensive tastes from working for Kakistos. _She was not surprised to find the keys still in the ignition—the car was clearly marked as belonging to the mayor's office, and virtually no one inclined to steal cars in Sunnydale would want to make an enemy out of His Honor. She settled Buffy in the passenger seat and drove to the hospital.

"Hey—could I have some help here?" The nurse on front desk duty looked up and saw a dark-haired teenage girl carrying another teenaged girl in her arms. The brunette gently settled the other girl down in one of the lobby chairs, then jogged over to the desk and explained, "She's been mugged—she's got some wicked nasty bruises. I've got the name and number of her guardian here." The girl handed the nurse a piece of paper. "You can call him—I need to get some of her stuff out of the car. Be right back."

"But—" The nurse started to object, but the girl ran out before she could finish her sentence. She pushed the button that would summon medical help, and punched in the number that was on the sheet of paper. "Hello. . .is this Mr. Giles? A young woman just brought in someone she said you were the guardian of—a Miss Buffy Summers?" The voice on the other end of the line increased in volume, and the nurse elaborated, "She's apparently been mugged—we're going to look at her now. The young woman said she would be right back—"

On the other end of the line, Rupert Giles sighed in mixed concern and relief. His tone was dry as he replied, "Don't bet on that. I'll be there in twenty minutes." He hung up the phone, scribbled a brief note for Xander and Willow, then ran for his car.

* * *

"Faith!" Buffy's eyes snapped open and she sat up instantly as she called out, looking wildly around until a wave of dizziness caused her to pause. 

"Easy, Buff. The last thing you need right now is to be barfing all over the bed." Xander's tone and expression belied the puckish comment, and he reached out and squeezed her shoulder as he added, "Welcome back."

Buffy looked around—more sedately this time—and saw that she was in a hospital room, alone with Xander. She locked eyes with her best friend and demanded: "How did I get here? What happened?"

"Well, the first part is easy. Faith brought you to the front desk, said you'd been mugged, then left and didn't come back." Buffy's eyes widened, and Xander coughed self-consciously and added, "We were hoping you knew what happened before that."

Buffy frowned, then began to get out of bed, ignoring the light feeling in her head: "I'll tell you when I tell everyone else—right now I need to get out of—"

"Ah yes—I believe I've heard this tune before." Dr. Wilkinson walked into the room, checked Buffy's chart, and commented, "They really ought to have a seminar in hog-tying techniques in medical school—it would be invaluable in dealing with patients like you, Miss Summers." Buffy scowled at the doctor, but he ignored it and added, "Oh well, might as well play my part: how are you feeling?"

"Better than I expected to while I was getting mugged?" Buffy did her best to assume an innocent expression, and the doctor sighed patiently while waiting for her to continue. Buffy frowned, then added: "I got whacked around pretty good, Doc. Probably gave me some pretty good bruises."

"Yes, it did. From the bruise on your back, I'd say one of those scoundrels whacked you with a crate that wouldn't fit through the door of this room—criminals are getting creative these days." Buffy assumed a poker face, and Dr. Wilkinson sighed again and said, "But, since the bruise is already fading and you seem to have no broken bones or other internal injuries, I'll reluctantly admit that you should be all right to leave in the morning, Miss Summers, once we observe you for a while longer to make sure that the concussion you received won't be causing any problems."

Buffy smiled, and Dr. Wilkinson inclined his head and left with a resigned expression on his face. Buffy looked after him with a mildly affectionate expression. –He's got to suspect what's going on in this town—I wish I knew for sure that it was the right thing to keep him in the dark-- She dismissed the thought and looked at Xander. "I don't suppose that I could talk you into going home and getting a good night's sleep?" Xander smirked at her, and Buffy nodded her head in acknowledgement. "All right, then. Call Giles and tell him that we're getting together for a conference at his apartment at eleven in the morning. In case there's any question—no Council weasels allowed." Xander nodded, and was about to stand up when Buffy added, "And get a deck of cards while you're up—I'm too wound up to sleep for a while yet."

Xander stood up, and the look he gave her was somehow more intimate than a hug before he turned and left the room. Buffy watched him go, then bit her lip in sheer frustration. _Damn it, Faith: what have you gotten yourself into?_

* * *

The vampire standing before Mayor Wilkins was less than thrilled about being the acting replacement for both Assistant Mayor Finch and Mr. Trick—it left him as the likely recipient of a lot of the Mayor's ire regarding the bad news he was about to pass on. He took a breath that he didn't really need and forced himself to look directly at the Mayor as he reported: "None of Trick's crew have reported back in—and there were traces of vampire dust near a spot on the docks where a fight had clearly taken place. Trick's car was gone, though the van was found parked nearby. We made a call and had the car's LoJack turned on—it turned up abandoned in Oxnard, with no one having seen anything." 

"I see—well, attacking two Slayers was always bound to be a risky enterprise." Mayor Wilkins looked calm, and only a slight twitch in his right cheek suggested that his calm might only be a surface impression. The vampire swallowed nervously, but Wilkins didn't seem to notice as he asked, "What of the Slayers?"

"Buffy Summers was dropped off at the emergency room by a young woman whose description meets that of the other Slayer, Faith. Her injuries were apparently relatively minor—she was released this morning." The vampire saw a frown from his boss, and hastened to continue: "Faith has not been seen by anyone in Sunnydale since last night—it's fairly certain that she's the one who stole the car and abandoned it."

"Mr. Trick kept a fair amount of cash in that car—used it for his little pleasures and for occasional bribery in the line of duty." Wilkins sighed as he looked out into the darkness visible from his office window. "My guess would be that young Miss Faith has taken it and anything else that she could carry easily from the car, and arranged alternate transportation out of the area." The vampire shivered, sensing that an explosion was coming, and was shocked when the Mayor smiled broadly and exclaimed, "Marvelous! Trick managed to accomplish something useful after all!"

The vampire blinked. "I don't understand, sir—both Slayers escaped, and one of them is completely out of your reach now."

Wilkins shook his head in mock dismay. "Bobby, Bobby, Bobby—if you're going to be my new assistant, you need to be able to see the big picture better." The vampire—who hated being called "Bobby" with a passion—forced down the irritated expression that threatened to cross his face as Wilkins continued, "Killing both Slayers was always going to be a longshot—but we've managed to drive one of them out of town, and—unless I miss my guess—the other one and her helpers are going to be distracted by either worrying about her safety or whether she's going to come back looking for payback, given what those English fools tried to do to her last night. Meanwhile, I will be pursuing my plans with relatively little interference." He grinned and announced, "I'm going out for ice cream to celebrate—want to tag along?"

The vampire politely declined, and Wilkins left the office, practically skipping out in his glee. Wilkins' newly minted assistant shook his head in dismay, and made a mental note to make sure that the name plaques on his door and desk read "Robert."

* * *

Buffy and her friends came into the library as a group, talking quietly among themselves—and went silent immediately when they saw Giles standing quietly near the cage, obviously waiting for them. Buffy blinked and asked the obvious question: "What's wrong, Giles?" 

Giles gestured for the four of them to sit, and they went to the large table and did so. Willow looked uncomfortable, and Oz squeezed her hand gently to distract her a bit. Xander rubbed distractedly at the fading bruises on his neck—it had been five days since Faith fled Sunnydale, and he had been doing all he could to try to force away the memories of his last meeting with her. Buffy watched Xander with concern, and waited for Giles to speak.

"A letter arrived here today—with a San Diego postmark. It was from Faith." Giles spoke calmly, though all present knew him well enough to detect the undertone of concern in his voice. Everyone straightened up just a bit, and Giles pulled out a pile of photocopies, adding "Reading it out loud struck me as being a bit melodramatic and unnecessary, so I've provided copies for each of you. He handed a copy to each of them, then looked at his own copy again. The four friends hesitated for a moment, then began to read:

_Hey Guys,_

_I'm sending this on the morning after I blew town, so by the time you get it I'll be a long way away from here, so if you want to send the idiots from England down here looking for me, go ahead. It'll give me a longer head start._

_Look—we all know that I screwed up, and there's no point in me saying I didn't. I didn't want that guy to die, and yeah, B, it bothered me that it happened. But after what they did to you, I sure as hell didn't trust the Council of Stuffy Jackasses to be fair to me, and you know that the local cops are the Mayor's goons. If it had just been Giles calling the shots, I'd have trusted him—but it wasn't. I figured that if he thought you had done it, that he'd protect you even if it meant blowing off the Council. It was dumb—I saw how this thing was eating you up, and no one with a brain would have believed that you'd cover it up cold or blame it on me if I hadn't done it. So, for what it's worth, I was an idiot to try to dump it on you—I should have just run in the first place, and that's what I'm doing now._

_Giles, B's lucky to have you on her side. It's tough to be the ugly stepsister, but I think you did your best for me. You gave me some good tips about life—I wish I had listened to more of them. Keep watching B's back—after four months in that town, I know that she needs it._

_Xander. . .I had a long road trip to think about what happened, and I get it now. If it means anything, I wish we'd had more time that night—not for what happened under the sheets, but to get to know each other better. Maybe I would have listened to you if we had. I won't tell you to stay out of trouble, because you won't, but take care of yourself—Buffy and Red would have a hard time getting along without you._

_Red—I'm pretty sure you didn't like me much before, and after what I did to Xander you'd probably like to rip my heart out and feed it to rats. I'd say you're entitled, and I won't blame you for it. Keep up the fight._

_Oz, you're all right in my book. With the Mayor turning out to be a Black Hat, B and the others are going to need all of the help they can get. I'm guessing you'll find a way to give it to them._

_B, thanks for trying—and tell Angel the same thing. It just wasn't meant to be._

_Oh, and you can tell the Council that I'm going to be moving around a lot—and killing any vamps or demons that cross my path. You can also tell them that I've got no interest in killing any more people—but if I see any Council weasels coming after me, I might change my mind as far as they're concerned. As for all of you—please don't try to find me: I don't want to be found._

_OK—that's enough. There's a freighter with my name on it, and it's leaving._

_Faith_

After a few minutes, everyone had finished reading and looked up to see how the others were reacting. Giles looked somber, while Willow's expression was ambivalent. Buffy and Xander both looked frustrated, and Oz. . .was Oz—inscrutable except for an occasional concerned look in Willow's direction. Xander broke the silence first: "So that's it? We're just going to let her go?"

"What else can we do, Xander?" Xander turned to Willow and saw that she looked resigned. "Buffy was three hours away from us for a whole summer and we couldn't find her." Buffy flinched, and Willow gave her an apologetic look before continuing, "Look—I don't like the Council any more than she does, and I'm glad that she's decided that killing people is bad, but if she wants to stay gone, there's not much we can do about it. She knows where to find us if she wants to come back or needs help—I just hope that she means it when she says that she'll just be killing demons from now on."

Giles nodded and commented, "Willow's analysis would appear to be sound, unfortunately. Faith has removed herself from this place and her fate is ultimately in her own hands. While we should be ready to react if she reappears, I would suggest that we consider how to deal with the current situation with the assumption that she will not be returning."

Buffy frowned, then nodded reluctantly. "You're right—so where do we begin?"

Giles smiled softly at Buffy's quick response, and began: "First—there is the matter of Mr. Wyndham-Pryce—"

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART TWO

"Professor McGonagall—may we have a few moments of your time?"

McGonagall turned and saw her three most prized students standing there, watching her with solemn expressions. Harry was the one who had spoken, but Hermione and Ron were standing by his side, clearly following Harry's lead. McGonagall took a moment to keep her expression calm, to keep them from knowing just how proud she was of them, before nodding sternly and replying, "Of course—shall we go up to my office?"

"Actually, Professor—we have an alternate scenario in mind, if you'd indulge us." McGonagall blinked in surprise as Hermione spoke, but she nodded again without hesitation and followed the trio as they walked through a number of corridors before stopping at a now familiar door: the entrance to the Room of Requirement. Harry stepped away from the others and paced before the door for a few moments before opening the door and gesturing for the others to enter.

McGonagall stared openly at the environment within the Room of Requirement: the whole place was lit in a silvery light that seemed to come from everywhere, causing the simple furniture inside to shimmer fitfully. Harry gestured to a comfortable looking armchair and invited, "Have a seat, Professor."

McGonagall sat down—and the three students followed her example. The new Headmistress of Hogwarts allowed herself a moment to take in her surroundings, before curiosity and a certain degree of urgency caused her to speak up: "All right—this is an interesting look for the Room of Requirement, but I still don't know what I'm doing here."

Harry coughed self-consciously, then began: "You asked me after the funeral to tell you what Professor Dumbledore and I had been doing before. . .before it happened." Harry paused and swallowed hard, then went on after Hermione reached out to squeeze his shoulder: "I didn't refuse you because I wanted to—I refused because. . .it's about the whole thing, Professor. Professor Dumbledore told me about the prophecy that Voldemort was after at the Ministry, and about how it ties into how we can finally get rid of that bastard once and for all. I really want to tell you: you've been there for us all along—nasty little incidents involving lots of points lost and Hagrid hatching a dragon egg in our first year aside." Harry saw Professor McGonagall's mouth twitch in involuntary amusement, and smiled himself before continuing: "I want you to know. . .but I can't let you stop us or get in the way, no matter what. I needed time to think of a way we could bring you in on this—but keep you from remembering if you decided that you needed to interfere."

McGonagall had to use all of her willpower to avoid staring at Harry: --Albus refused to give me the details of that prophecy for seventeen years, and Harry's willing to let me know about it now, as long as I won't interfere? How can I refuse?-- She took a deep breath, then replied, "I see your dilemma, Harry—what does it have to do with our presence here?"

"Have you ever considered what the properties of this room are, Professor?" Hermione spoke quietly, her eyes shining with the joy of discovery. McGonagall raised an eyebrow—inviting her best student to continue—and Hermione gestured to the room and continued, "The room will create virtually any environment that the person setting it up can envision—which was a great help when we first set up the D.A., and unfortunately was also a help to Malfoy when he was concocting his own scheme." McGonagall winced, and Harry and Ron scowled. Hermione sighed and said, "Something occurred to me while we were discussing the problem of how to bring you in while keeping the option of. . .salvaging the situation if your reaction was unfortunate." This time it was McGonagall who scowled, though she was secretly proud of how Hermione ignored the negative reaction as she added, "If the Room could create physical objects, shouldn't it be able to reproduce magical effects as specified by the person setting things up? We decided to test the proposition—and we found that the Room was able to create a wide variety of magical effects, including specifically targeted and conditioned Obliviate spells."

McGonagall blinked, stood up, and bellowed: "YOU'VE BEEN EXPERIMENTING WITH OBLIVIATE SPELLS ON EACH OTHER? HAVE WE TAUGHT YOU NOTHING ABOUT COMMON--"

"Professor—if we don't stop Voldemort, possible memory damage is going to be the least of our problems." McGonagall was startled that it was Ron who spoke this time—the tall redhead was watching her with a calm expression and a look of determination in his eyes that reminded her why she found him to be a fit companion for Harry and Hermione. She set her jaw and sat down again, and Ron added, "We tried little things at first—silly conditions and information that we had just given each other—and found that they worked perfectly. The Room is designed to give the person setting it up the environment they want—and that includes security spells. If we had known that, Hermione wouldn't have had to bother with that parchment that gave Marietta Edgecombe that lovely skin condition."

McGonagall chuckled involuntarily, and felt a little guilty about it for a moment before dismissing the reaction and nodding: "All right, then—you've set up the Room with a conditional Obliviate spell that will prevent me from revealing what I learn here to anyone else, and which will remove the memories if I leave this room without having firmly decided not to interfere, yes?" The three students nodded, and McGonagall sighed and said, "Since I am not thrilled about the prospect of having the Room muck about with my gray matter, I will agree to your terms—I hope it doesn't end up leaving me responsible for your demises." Harry blinked, then inclined his head with a grateful expression. McGonagall returned the gesture and asked, "All right—that explains why you wanted to see me in the Room—but what is the reason for the light show?"

Harry shrugged and replied, "As long as we had to bring you here for the Obliviate effect, we decided to add another feature—the Room is going to act as a Penseive, with us having comfortable seats for the experience." Harry placed his wand on his temple, and pulled it slowly away, producing a silvery line of memory. "If you're ready, I'll show you the important moments over the last year."

McGonagall swallowed hard in anticipation, and nodded once before inviting: "By all means, Harry—continue."

The last image faded, and Harry turned to look at Professor McGonagall—who was silently staring at him. He smiled gently and asked, "Are you all right, Professor?"

McGonagall shook her head slowly and replied, "No, Harry, I am not. However, it is obvious that none of us have time to waste on simple shock." She turned to Hermione and commented, "Your judgment was impeccable—if you hadn't made it futile, I would be planning to do everything in my power to stop you from pursuing this course of action. It is unthinkable that the fate of the entire wizarding world should be left to three Hogwarts students placed up against the wiles and power of the most dangerous Dark Wizard ever. However, you have insured that I cannot interfere, and I cannot bring myself to stand by and do nothing when you. . .when you are going off to do what you must. How can I be of assistance to you?"

"We have a plan, and part of it will involve extensive research—and there is no better place to do it than Hogwarts." Harry spoke calmly, and only a slight quiver in his voice revealed his tension as he continued, "Ron and Hermione are coming to stay with me until I turn seventeen at the end of July."

"Really? Won't your aunt and uncle object rather strenuously to that?" McGonagall asked out of reflex, though she was anxious to hear what Harry and the others had planned.

"If they don't like it, they can take it up with an adult witch and an adult wizard—or I can simply move directly to Grimmauld Place and leave them to deal with Voldemort on their own." McGonagall shivered at the coldness in Harry's voice, but she could not find the slightest glimmer of condemnation within her to direct at Harry for it: her impression of the Dursleys from sixteen years before had been proven to be all too correct. Harry saw the reaction and shrugged apologetically before adding, "Professor Dumbledore explained how the Ministry's Underage Magic detection system works—as long as Ron and Hermione are living with me with the knowledge of the Ministry, I can practice freely over the next month at home without triggering any alerts. While I'm at home practicing my skills, Ron and Hermione will be taking advantage of being seventeen already to do some important ground work."

"Ground work?" McGonagall sat up straighter, her interest piqued.

"If we're going to do this, we're going to need to be quiet about it, and we're going to need the best knowledge possible about the places we'll be looking. Hermione's jobs are spell research—to help us hide and move about without notice—and historical research—looking for clues to where Voldemort might have hidden his Horcruxes, and anything else that might suggest how he will move and some of his secondary motivations and targets. Ron's emphasis will be the political scene—Mr. Weasley can give him access to the Ministry and advise him as to the best way to deal with people quietly, and his presence there will not raise any eyebrows, even among any spies at the Ministry. I would like you to quietly give Hermione full access to the library here during the summer, but to keep it quiet so that no one is suspicious at her presence. If she needs to go to other libraries, we will be sending her out in disguise. If all goes well, by the time my birthday comes we will be much better trained and prepared to hunt for what we are looking for, either as a group or separately as the situation requires." Harry took a deep breath—he had unconsciously related his last few sentences without breathing much, and it made him rather light-headed for a moment. He chuckled in a moment of self-deprecation, then asked, "Can you do that for us, Professor?"

"Easily—and with no reservations, Harry. If things had gone according to plan this year, Hermione would have had full access to the Restricted Section in any event when she got her school letter next month." Hermione's eyes widened, and McGonagall snorted. "Really, Hermione—who in the world did you think was going to be Head Girl: Lavender Brown?" Ron winced, and Harry chuckled again at the annoyed glance that Hermione directed at the redhead before McGonagall added, "I know it is cold comfort, given the difficult times that undoubtedly await you—but you fully earned that honor, even if circumstances dictate that you will not be able to accept it." McGonagall smiled at Hermione, and turned back to Harry: "Hedwig knows the way to Hogwarts quite well by now, Harry—I expect to hear from you if you require any further assistance. I have agreed not to interfere, but I will be most displeased if I find you are not seeking needed help in this endeavor—the fate of the entire wizarding world is at stake, and I expect you to use good sense in doing what needs to be done."

Harry shivered for a moment—even after all of this time, McGonagall had the knack for making him feel like a nervous eleven-year-old at times. "Of course, Professor. Now, we had better get to the Closing Feast—I have a feeling that it would be noticed if you did not put in an appearance, even with most of the students having left after the funeral."

McGonagall quirked a smile at Harry, nodded to Hermione and Ron, and walked to the door. The others followed, leaving the Room of Requirement in silent darkness.

There were only a handful of students waiting for the Hogwarts Express when it arrived at noon the next day—most of them were Gryffindors from Harry's circle of friends and acquaintances. Luna Lovegood stood quietly, reading the Quibbler in silence while Harry spoke quietly to Neville, and Ron and Hermione stood nearby, looking vaguely uneasy and saying nothing. Tonks and Lupin had come to escort Harry and his friends back to Privet Drive, but their attention was on each other for the moment. 

Harry nodded to Neville and saw a paper sitting on a nearby bench. Restless and anxious for the train to arrive, he decided to read a bit to distract himself. He opened the paper and looked at page 5 more or less randomly. A picture of a monstrously large snake attacking a crowd of people in robes almost leapt out at him, and the picture next to it—of a large building exploding in a ball of fire—was almost as riveting. Harry glanced up at the article heading: "Demon Snake Attacks Hellmouth High School; Day Saved By The Slayer." He read for a few moments—noting that the dateline was from "Sunnydale, California, USA"-- then turned to Luna and said, "This is a very stimulating article, Luna—where did your dad find it?"

Harry heard a muffled chuckle next to him, and he turned to see Lupin looking at him with an amused expression. He raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's the joke?"

"That's not The Quibbler, Harry—it's The Daily Prophet." Lupin's tone was dry and amused, and Harry quickly closed the paper and looked at the front page: it was dominated by a picture of Dumbledore's tomb and—to his intense annoyance—a picture of him with his eyes closed and his expression distorted by grief. He turned back to Lupin and saw his former professor shrug and add, "Even in sad times like this, Harry, there is other news in our world."

"We're doing better these days, but we certainly can't afford to keep a photographer or a reporter in Sunnydale, Harry—the hazard pay is too expensive." Luna looked carefully at Harry, her protuberant eyes lively with interest. "Why did you think it was a Quibbler story, Harry?"

Harry flushed crimson. "It just looked like a story I might have read in The Quibbler, that's all." Luna looked at him for a moment, then nodded solemnly and went back to reading. Harry sighed in relief, grabbed Lupin by the arm—leaving Tonks snickering in their wake—and dragged him out of hearing range of the others waiting for the train and whispered fiercely, "Since when does The Daily Prophet print rubbish like this?"

"As opposed to the rubbish it always printed before about you and your friends, Harry?" Lupin's expression was more warm and animated than Harry had seen it in some time—were it not for the puzzling situation facing him at the moment, Harry would be experiencing genuine gladness for the change in his friend's mood since Tonks had confronted him about their feelings for each other. As it was, though, he was mostly confused as Lupin sighed and continued, "Harry—you –were- listening during the lessons I gave you in Defense Against the Dark Arts about magical creatures, right?"

"Of course I was!" Harry replied in mild outrage—the written DADA OWL had several questions that came from third year material, and he had answered the questions with little expense in time or effort. "What does that have to do with some crazy story about demon snakes and a school blowing up?"

Lupin looked at Harry with a tolerant expression for a moment before replying, "Harry—Sunnydale, California is where the Slayer is stationed: it's a major source of demonic evil. Buffy Summers just defeated a former muggle sorcerer who had used a ritual to become a true demon—it would have killed thousands of people if she hadn't succeeded."

Harry stared at Lupin. He remembered Lupin's mention of the Slayer: a powerful warrior for the forces of light who was Chosen at the moment of the death of her predecessor, and who faced a short and dangerous life fighting against demonic evil. He hadn't given that lesson much thought since then, and Lupin's simple statement filled him with a sense of awe, discovery and—He looked directly at Lupin, raised an eyebrow, and asked, "The Slayer is named 'Buffy'?"

Lupin shrugged. "You've seen your share of sadistic parents in your time, Harry."

Harry nodded, and decided to broach a more serious concern: "This place sounds like it could be dangerous—is it something that Voldemort could exploit and use against us?"

Lupin frowned at the question, then shook his head. "The source of demonic evil in Sunnydale is known as the Hellmouth—its energy is of a type that our arts cannot harness safely. Some muggles have been able to do so, along with other sources of power, but Voldemort would not do so—the Hellmouth is far more useful to those who would destroy the world given the chance than to those who wish to rule it."

Harry nodded, then asked, "Should we contact the Slayer? Voldemort will want to conquer Wizarding America, too—perhaps she can help us in the final battle."

Lupin shook his head again. "Given the danger posed by demonic evil—and by the Hellmouth in particular—it is crucial that the Slayer be stationed at the source of the utmost danger. A Slayer possesses superhuman strength, speed, toughness, and regenerative abilities along with remarkable innate skill with all weapons and the gift of prophetic dreams, but she can be slain by a Killing Curse as readily as one of us can, Harry. We would warn her if we could if we were to learn, say, that Voldemort wished to abduct her and use the Imperius Curse on her to make her a slave, but she must be left free to do her job." Lupin smiled sadly at the disappointed expression on Harry's face, and suggested, "When this is all over, perhaps the Slayer will have you to thank for saving the world for a change."

Harry didn't reply—he had dismissed the whole matter from his mind as he saw the Hogwarts Express approach. The Slayer was merely a trivial note of interest now—he had a plan to stop Voldemort to finish crafting, and nothing else mattered.

Author's Note: A slight tweaking of canon here—HBP had the Hogwarts Express leaving for the last time one hour after Albus Dumbledore's funeral, but I decided that Harry, Hermione, and Ron could use a little more time to plan, so I pushed things back a day or two after the fadeout at the end of HBP, on the theory that a few parents might well decide that Hogwarts wasn't any more dangerous than the rest of the wizarding world at that moment, and that the Dursleys weren't exactly anxious to have Harry back in any event. . .

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired. 


	3. Interlude One

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One 

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

INTERLUDE ONE: DUELING NEWSPAPERS AND A SMALL ROOM

_**from the "miscellaneous events" section of the London Times, p. 23**_

LITTLE WHINGING The quiet of a small neighborhood was shattered early this morning when the perfectly ordinary house at Number Four Privet Drive was blown into oblivion by what is being called by authorities "an unfortunate result of a natural gas leak." Early reports of some kind of small arms fire from callers to the authorities from the surrounding neighborhoods turned out to be false, as witnesses near the scene were interviewed and indicated that there was no warning of the explosion. The house was reduced to its foundations, but none of the nearby houses were damaged. There were no reported deaths or injuries, as the occupants of the house—Vernon Dursley, his wife Petunia, their son Dudley, and their nephew Harry Potter—were apparently away at the time. Attempts to locate the Dursleys and their nephew are in progress, but so far have been unsuccessful.

* * *

_**Banner headline of the July 31, 1999 afternoon edition of The Daily Prophet, accompanied by a large photo of Aurors searching through the rubble of Number Four Privet Drive, and a photo of the Dark Mark fading from view as Aurors directed dispelling magic at it**_

**BREAKING NEWS! DEATH EATERS DESTROY HOME OF HARRY POTTER!**

By Rita Skeeter

The Daily Prophet has learned that the ordinary-looking house in Little Whinging that was attacked early this morning by Death Eaters and destroyed—requiring the services of a team of dedicated Obliviators to deal with the Muggle witnesses in the area—was the residence of Harry Potter's guardians, Vernon and Petunia Dursley, who are both muggles, as is their son, Dudley. Petunia Dursley is the older sister of Harry Potter's late mother, Lily Evans Potter. As we all know, the Potters were murdered by You-Know-Who sixteen years ago this Halloween—only to have young Harry somehow turn his Killing Curse back on him, which apparently almost destroyed him and caused him to have to spend almost fourteen years in a ghostlike state before his return to corporeal existence two years ago. It is well known that You-Know-Who would like to see Harry Potter dead, and the destruction of Number Four Privet Drive is believed to have been the result of an attempt to capture or destroy Harry just as he turned seventeen. However, the house was apparently empty when it was destroyed, and no one has seen any sign of the Dursleys since the evening before the attack.

Arthur Weasley of the Ministry of Magic gave a public statement about the well-being of Harry Potter this morning: "Harry is quite all right—he was at the Ministry at the time of the attack, having arranged to take his Apparation exam just after midnight on his birthday. After passing the test, he received word from the Auror Department that his home had been attacked. He received the news calmly, and informed me that he was not surprised, and that his relatives had been spirited away to a safe location beforehand, as he was aware that the magical protection placed around Number Four Privet Drive would lapse at the moment he turned seventeen and was no longer a child in the eyes of the Wizarding World. Harry would like to thank everyone who is expressing their concern for him, but he has indicated his wishes to stay in seclusion for the near future, while he contemplates recent events." Mr. Weasley had no comment on where the Dursleys might be, or about persistent rumors that the Dursleys abused Harry while acting as his guardians.

The Daily Prophet is actively pursuing all angles of this disturbing incident, and will pass on any news that we obtain on the matter.

_**further stories on this subject on pages 2, 3, 5, 11, and 15**_

****

* * *

****

"Enervate!"

The three spoke as one, and spells darted over to the slumbering persons on the beds. As one, the Dursleys sat up and looked around in confusion.

"Hello—hope that sleep did you some good."

The Dursleys looked to the doorway of the room, where Harry stood next to Hermione and Ron. Dudley opened his mouth to say something, but the blazing glare from Hermione caused him to close his mouth silently and cringe away from the doorway. Petunia took one look at her nephew and swallowed hard—she knew that something important had happened, and that it was unlikely to be pleasant for them. Vernon—clueless as always—ignored the obvious danger signs and pulled himself to his feet as he bellowed: "BOY! WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS? WHAT ARE WE DOING HERE IN THIS GODFORSAKEN—!"

"Careful, Vernon—you're a long way from any doctor to help you deal with your high blood pressure." Vernon turned an odd shade of purple, and seemed about ready to charge at Harry and throttle him for the impertinent comment when Harry leveled his wand and added, "Oh—and I stopped being a 'boy' in the eyes of those 'freaks' twenty hours ago. Take one more step, and I'll turn you into a constipated toad." Vernon stopped, paled, and sat down on the bed he had been sleeping on. Harry nodded approvingly. "Good. Now I can tell you what is going on. Remember how Professor Dumbledore told you that the wards that protected your house would last until my seventeenth birthday?" Vernon and Petunia nodded, and Harry pulled out a copy of The Daily Prophet and tossed it to Petunia as he concluded, "Well, they came down at the stroke of midnight, and someone was waiting."

Petunia's eyes fell on the headline and the photos, and her eyes bugged out in a manner that made Luna's look ordinary by comparison. Vernon scowled at the sight of the magical paper, but one look at the front page caused him to go silent. It was left to Dudley to look at the pictures and read the paragraphs underneath with some difficulty, then look up at Harry with a dazed expression as he asked quietly, "They blew up our house?"

"Yes—and they would have killed anyone they found there, too. Fortunately, by the time the clock struck midnight no one was in the house. The three of us were at the Ministry of Magic, and you. . .you were already in this room, where we had left you a couple of hours before." The Dursleys stared at Harry, and Harry shook his head in amusement and commented, "Thank goodness for magic—we would have ended up with hernias trying to drag you around without it after Ron and Hermione Stunned you."

"Why in the world would you knock us unconscious, Harry?" Petunia asked quietly, trying to grasp the situation she and her family found themselves in. "We've lived up to the truce you imposed on us last month—why would you attack us now, when you were hours away from being able to leave us completely in any event?"

Ron snorted. "We weren't attacking you—we just had to get you out of that house quickly and we didn't have time for stupid arguments. Easier to Stun you and wake you up when all of the arrangements had been made."

"What arrangements?" snapped Vernon, trying to gain some kind of control over the situation. The cold expressions of the three teenagers caused him to hesitate, then ask in a quieter tone: "What is this place? Why are we here?"

"You're in one of the guest rooms at The Leaky Cauldron." Harry was not surprised at the blank expressions his explanation produced, and he elaborated, "It's an inn that serves as the entrance between Muggle London and Diagon Alley—the center of commerce in Wizarding London."

Petunia paled, and asked quietly, "You mean you took us to a place that hundreds of. . .hundreds of your kind pass through every day, and that anyone could gain entrance to?"

"If we had done nothing else, yes." Harry's voice was calm. "However, I am fortunate enough to have the most brilliant witch I have ever met at my side—" Hermione's cheeks reddened slightly, but her expression remained stern and her eyes never wavered as Harry continued: "—and you are fortunate that she was able to cast a very, very powerful and difficult protection charm before midnight struck and Voldemort started actively hunting for you away from Privet Drive. It's called the Fidelius Charm—it's what Professor Dumbledore used to protect my parents."

"A lot of good it did them!" Petunia almost shouted, before glancing at the walls and remembering that she was in the midst of people whose attention she did not want to attract. She took a deep breath and asked urgently, "Isn't there anything more reliable?"

"It's completely reliable—unless you trust the wrong people." Hermione spoke, sensing that Harry needed a moment to deal with the mention of his parents. The Dursleys frowned in incomprehension again, and Hermione explained quietly: "The Fidelius Charm hides the place or the persons protected by it from everyone except those who have been given the information of the location by the Secret Keeper—the person designated by the caster of the spell to protect the secret from those who would harm those the Charm protects. The Potters had three close friends, and chose the one who had turned traitor to become their Secret Keeper. That choice led to their deaths at the hands of Voldemort."

Vernon and Dudley were silent, but something seemed to flicker in Petunia's eyes as she turned to Harry and asked quietly, "Is the traitor still alive?"

"Yes." Harry's tone was guarded, and his expression was equally so as he responded to the uncharacteristic question from his aunt. "He's in Voldemort's inner circle."

"When he dies, will you send word to me?" Harry blinked at the request, and Petunia noted the response and said softly: "I don't like you people much—and I never got along well with Lily. . .but it doesn't seem right that the person who arranged for my sister's murder should get away with it, and I have a feeling that you're planning on doing something about it, Harry."

Harry hesitated, then nodded once. Petunia seemed to slump a little with the effort of what she had just said, then asked, "Why here, Harry? I can guess that the magic might not have worked at Number Four Privet Drive, but there must be any number of places you could have taken us to hide."

"I needed a place with someone I could trust to take care of your needs while you were in hiding—Tom the barman will be bringing your meals to you." Harry paused, and a slightly nasty glint appeared in his eyes as he added, "Of course, the meals will be magically prepared—it's either that or gnawing on the furniture for meals."

"And what if we decide to take our chances on our own?" snapped Vernon, who was still trying to recover his lost authority. "The bloody lot of you. . .wizards have been a plague on our lives—why shouldn't we just take the insurance payout for the house and head out of the country until the shooting stops?"

Harry shrugged. "You're welcome to try—I've arranged through the Ministry for the insurance money to be deposited in your bank account, and for your passports to be there ready to pick up. All you have to do is go there and get them, and run." Vernon's eyes widened in surprise and relief, and Harry paused for a long moment before adding, "Of course, the Death Eaters are probably waiting outside the bank to grab you the second you leave, without even mentioning the tracking spells that Voldemort has access to that could spot you the moment you leave this very room." Vernon paled dramatically, and Harry asked, "Did I ever tell you what Voldemort likes to do to muggle families, just because they're muggles and he hates them on principle?" The Dursleys shook their heads, and Harry swallowed hard and recited the fate of a family of four in London—who had no ties to the wizarding world whatsoever, but who had simply been unfortunate enough to be in the path of a group of Death Eaters on a rampage. When he had finished, even Ron and Hermione looked nauseated, while Vernon and Petunia were staring at him in silence, and Dudley was shaking like a leaf, accompanied by a familiar and unpleasant odor. Harry sighed and said in a sympathetic tone, "The bathroom is behind you, Dudley—there are some clean clothes in there, too." Dudley nodded once and fled, and Harry shook his head sadly and concluded, "That was for a family who had had no specific reason to hate: what do you think he'd do to muggles who have been hiding his worst enemy all these years, and who he thinks might know where to find me?"

The muffled sound of vomiting came from behind the closed bathroom door, and Petunia looked as if she wanted to join her son in that very reasonable reaction to what they had heard. She closed her eyes and shuddered, then forced herself to look at her nephew again as she asked, "So, we have to stay here until Voldemort and his followers are dead?"

"The choice is yours," replied Harry. "I'll have the Daily Prophet delivered here daily, so you can follow the news if you choose to. They make a lot of stuff up, but if Voldemort dies and a lot of his men die in the bargain, you'll know it. If you want to grab your money and leave the country then, it'll probably be safe—the surviving Death Eaters will have a lot bigger problems than tracking you down at that moment. If it's me who goes first. . .well, Tom will keep delivering meals to you as long as the Leaky Cauldron stands. The spell will keep this room intact even if the inn is blasted to pieces, and I've made alternate arrangements to keep you fed if that happens. You'll always have the option of going out the door. . .but if Voldemort wins, you'll be a lot better off staying in here. Trust me."

Vernon nodded slowly. For the first time he could remember, he actually did trust what his nephew was telling him. A thought occurred to him, and he asked, "So—this spell will keep us protected unless the person with the secret sells us out?" Harry nodded, and Vernon asks, "So if this Voldemort freak captures that person and tortures him for the information--?"

"I wouldn't worry about that, Uncle Vernon." Harry replied, shaking his head and looking at his aunt and uncle with an unreadable expression. "As it happens, Voldemort is far more interesting in making your Secret Keeper very dead than in torturing the location of a few muggles out of him." The Dursleys' eyes widened in comprehension, and Harry nodded in confirmation as he concluded, "So—your safety is secured by my sense of honor towards a group of people who made my childhood a living hell. I hope that makes you feel secure."

Harry watched the faces of his aunt and uncle as they looked back at him, and for the first time he saw genuine shame on those faces, instead of the fear that he had anticipated. He sighed and shook his head in disgust. _Too little, too late. _His expression turned cold, and he spoke for the last time: "When I leave this room, you will never see me again. If you need to get a message to me, Tom will arrange it." With that, he turned and left the room, with Ron and Hermione silently following, their backs contemptuously turned to the Dursleys as the muggles were left alone in their new refuge and prison.

* * *

Harry paused in the hallway and leaned against the wall, breathing slowly. He felt Hermoine's hand close on his shoulder and squeeze gently, and he turned to her and demanded in a soft voice, "Why was that so hard? I've wanted to be free of them since before I met you two."

"Because—as much as they were bastards to you—they're your family." Ron walked around Hermione and looked at Harry as he shook his head sadly. "Deep down, you were hoping that the idiots would come around and start treating you like a person, not a burden who represented something that your uncle couldn't understand and that your aunt was jealous of. It was never going to happen—they are what they are, and you've done right by them. They'll have to make their own way now—and you've got other family to worry about."

Harry nodded slowly, and there was only a hint of tears in his eyes when he turned back to smile at Hermione, then turned again to look at Ron as he replied, "Yes, I do—and we have a lot of work to do. Let's go."

The three walked out of the Leaky Cauldron, then as one they Apparated away.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	4. Chapter 3

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One 

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART THREE

The gambler studied the young woman sitting across from him—with a large pot sitting between them—then tossed five black chips into the center of the table as he called out: "Five hundred."

The woman smiled, and the wraparound sunglasses she was wearing came off. The gambler saw dark brown eyes that defied his well-honed abilities to read the emotion in them, and which seemed to be boring into his own in a search for what was hiding beneath the anonymous backs of his two hole cards. It only took a second, maybe two, for her to reach down for the two stacks of chips—amounting to about two thousand dollars-- in front of her and push them forward as she replied calmly: "All in."

The gambler winced inwardly—he had been semi-bluffing with nines in the hole, and a king and a queen were sitting on the table for all to see along with three rags. The woman—who if she was twenty-one it was by the most vanishing margin—had read him perfectly, and he wasn't about to throw half his stack away on the slim chance that she was outright bluffing. He made a show of playing with his chips, then mucked his hand. The woman smiled again, and stacked the chips that the dealer raked over to her. The gambler remembered that she had sat down with the minimum two hundred dollar buy-in about two hours before, and that stack had now grown to well over three thousand dollars as she stood up, tossed the dealer a $25 chip, and said, "OK, guys—that's enough for me tonight—good luck." She deftly racked her chips and walked over to the cashier.

The attendant on duty recognized the woman and smiled as she asked, "Good night, Hope?"

The woman nodded. "Good enough." She accepted the cash in hundreds, and put the small roll in the front pocket of her jeans as she waved to the attendant and headed out to the parking lot to hail a cab. After a short ride, the cab pulled up in front of an apartment building in a middle-class neighborhood. The woman got out—having paid the driver in cash—and let herself into the front door of the building, before jogging up two flights of stairs and entering apt #302.

Faith—as she always did when returning home—breathed a sigh of relief, locked and chained the door, and took the cash over to the small slot in the floor where she kept a fireproof safe. The cash joined the rather large amount already there, and Faith closed the safe and covered it up again before walking over and slumping onto the sinfully overstuffed armchair sitting in the living room.

It had been eight months since Faith had mailed the letter to Giles from San Diego—and she had not spent one moment of it in the cramped, swaying confines of a freighter. If Buffy hadn't come after her that night in January, that would have been her escape route, but the events that followed Buffy's arrival—not to mention the five thousand dollars in cash that she had been delighted to discover hidden in Trick's car—had caused her to change her plans radically: travelling was expensive unless the accommodations sucked, and—other things being equal—she had found that she liked living in Southern California. After dumping the car in Oxnard and taking a bus down to San Diego, she had immediately started a project of misdirection with the purchase of a number of unmarked postcards that she carefully filled out with generic "wish you were here" comments and the address of Giles' flat, and by acquiring a T-shirt and jeans that would have allowed her to seduce a eunuch with effort to spare. She used the latter to separate a twenty-year old sailor from his buddies and his clothing in a small motel room near the docks, then quietly whispered a request for a favor in his ear as her hands were busy elsewhere. The young man—who would have agreed to jumping off the Coronado Bridge in a tutu if Faith had suggested it at that moment—agreed to mail the postcards one at a time from each of the ports of call that his ship made from then on until they ran out. Twenty minutes later, the sailor was staggering out of the motel room with a vacant smile on his face, and Faith was already planning her next move.

After purchasing a few more items of clothing and securing a new room in a somewhat better section of town, Faith had produced another batch of postcards, then passed them on to a re-mailing service that had been instructed to mail them from port cities all over the world over the next three years. Faith realized that Giles—or whoever was reading his mail—would probably realize that she was screwing around with him, particularly if cards being mailed by the sailor conflicted with those coming from the re-mailing service, but that didn't bother her—the point was to cause anyone looking for her to be looking away from Southern California, and she believed that the effort involved in trying to find a pattern in those postcards would do wonders for that.

After considering her options, she remembered that California was known for its poker rooms, and that she had developed considerable skill in the game during her time on the streets before Amanda—her first Watcher--found her. Of course, back then she had been playing for nickels and dimes, but she knew odds and tactics better than most who had seen her indifference to educational matters would have suspected, and—after a fake I.D. got her into a few games—she realized that she had acquired a very useful weapon for an aspiring poker player: Slayer intuition.

Faith had seen how Buffy—an indifferent student even when she attended classes—had managed SAT scores that had impressed Willow and shocked the others. No one said anything to her about it—even Cordelia wasn't tactless enough to suggest that Buffy had cheated by using the powers of the Chosen One to ace a test—but Faith had quietly satisfied her own curiosity by obtaining a sample SAT test and completing it in her room one night, taking the full allotted time to go through the test and answer all of the questions, though nine out of ten of them had her scratching her head. When she was done, she checked the answers and discovered that she—who had not spent a single day in a classroom after the eighth grade—had scored in the 85th percentile on the test. Nothing earth-shaking—and not nearly as well as Buffy had done—but it had confirmed Faith's suspicion that the same intuition that powered Slayer's dreams and gave those Slayers flashes of insight at crucial moments in battle might have more ordinary applications, such as making piles of money at poker tables.

She didn't get greedy—driving to Las Vegas and signing up for the World Series of Poker was a tempting prospect, but she knew there was a lot of luck involved in those tournaments, and she didn't want to attract attention even in the limited way that winning a tournament watched by a few thousand people on ESPN and which was of no interest to almost anyone else would give her even if she could win. On the other hand, there were thousands of players in Southern California and Vegas playing various varieties of poker, and she could win their money and remain relatively anonymous without trouble, as long as she went to different clubs, and occasionally to Vegas to let the memories of her grow fainter.

The plan had worked well: she was averaging about six thousand dollars a week in winnings, and she was careful to avoid winning enough in any one place and time to have to file any tax forms. After a few weeks, she had invested in a first-rate fake ID and cover identity, including a fake job that she could use to file taxes and keep the IRS off her back. She found an apartment in a central location in the suburbs of Los Angeles, and paid off the lease for two years—she didn't want to interact with the landlords any more than necessary. After seven months of this routine, she had put together a well-furnished residence, had over fifty thousand in cash set aside for a rainy day, and had a car—a 1970 Pontiac Grand Prix in pristine condition—that would do 135 MPH if and when she found cops or demons on her tail.

Faith sighed. _Unfortunately, it's not enough._

At least twice a week—after she had finished playing poker for the day and had put away her winnings—she would put on outfits that anyone who knew her in Sunnydale would recognize, along with various disguises such as wigs and sunglasses, and head out on the town. Some nights she would go into the most dangerous parts of the city, and—whether the prey she found was demonic or simply criminals that made the mistake of doing something stupid in front of her—the result was quiet whispers that –something—that would strike fear in the heart of a stone was out there stalking them. The demons only had the rumors of disappearances to work with—the gang members, thugs, and pimps could see for themselves the shattered limbs, black eyes, and unfocused stares that followed the passing of the deadly whatever-it-was. No one human had been killed yet by the mysterious figure, but they feared her with an intensity that had several men with multiple homicides to their names envious at the regard.

On other nights, she would simply find a bar—any bar—and sit at a table and quietly drink for a time before departing. She drew more than a little attention on these nights—no matter how she was disguised, she was beautiful and dressed to kill—but she turned away all who approached her, either politely, or with swift and blinding violence if the would be-suitor couldn't take no for an answer. Occasionally—as a young man with a disappointed expression turned away from her—she wondered at her forbearance: it had been long months since that evening with the sailor, and her biological pressures were reaching danger levels. But she knew that such encounters would inevitably increase the number of people who knew of her existence in this place, and something else was bothering her, though what it was escaped her. As she wondered, the image of betrayal on Xander Harris' face flickered in her mind just beneath the conscious level before vanishing.

Faith dismissed the moment of introspection, then stood up and entered her bathroom. First, she shed her outer clothing and put on a black T-shirt and red leather pants, before pulling on a black motorcycle jacket. She next reached for a longhaired blonde wig, which she easily pulled over her medium length hair, tucking loose hairs underneath and not stopping until the look was perfect. Next came the wraparound sunglasses, and a touch of Harlot Red lipstick. She glanced in the mirror. _All right, no use obsessing over it—it's not like anyone is going to unwrap the packaging tonight. _She grimaced at the thought, then headed out.

* * *

As with many other parts of her life, Faith let her regular prowls be guided by her intuition. She drove around more-or-less randomly along the freeways until she had an impulse to stop, after which she would park her car in a well-lit area that would not be a likely haunt for car thieves, and walked into the night.

On this night in early October, Faith parked in the lot of a small grocery store on the outskirts of Glendale, then walked towards a brightly-lit area of various shops, restaurants, and other small businesses. It was about seven in the evening, and many people were still around, talking to each other and going in and out of the businesses. It was just another Saturday night as far as this town was concerned, and the clandestine presence of a Slayer would not change that.

Faith walked quietly, ignoring the occasional stares from passersby as she looked into store windows and enjoyed the cool evening air. She had not seen any vampires, and there seemed to be very little which would demand the attention of a Slayer—even a quasi-reformed one who was looking for a little trouble to distract her. She was pondering the possibility of catching a movie and blowing off her usual hunting or drinking session when she spotted something across the street that riveted her attention.

Between two brightly-lit businesses in a fairly large storefront, there was an opening lined in brick, about four feet wide and six feet deep, and terminating in an ordinary looking door. The alcove was dark, and the pedestrians passing it seemed to be ignoring its very existence. More to the point, they seemed to be taking unnaturally long steps to avoid stepping on the pavement in front of the door—an effect that was rather obvious when small children did it—without stumbling or otherwise seeming to be aware that they were doing so. Faith watched for a few minutes and realized that the behavior of the pedestrians was universal—no one but her seemed to know that the doorway was there. Frowning, she waited for a gap in the pedestrian traffic, crossed the street, and walked briskly up to the doorway. Soon after, pedestrians began passing her again, with the same odd walking pattern. She tried waving as they passed, but no one reacted. She snorted in surprise, then reached out and grasped the handle of the door—which opened without any problems. After giving one last glance to the oblivious shoppers out on the street, Faith turned to the doorway and walked in.

The door closed quietly behind her, but Faith was already looking at her new surroundings—which were giving her more "weirdness" vibes than she had experienced since leaving Sunnydale. The room she had entered was lit by lanterns set in the walls, which flickered slightly as the door finished closing before they ceased moving. The walls seemed to be made from polished oak and shone in the light. Most notably, the forty-odd occupants of the room seemed to be mostly clad in dark robes, though there were a few stragglers wearing business suits that looked as if they had been manufactured for extras in a movie from the 1950's. The men—for they were all men—were staring at her with a universally interpretable expression that said: "You don't belong here."

Faith smirked—she had never been one to be scared off easily. She walked over to what appeared to be the bar and addressed the big man standing behind the counter: "Give me a shot."

The bartender blinked, and seemed to be at a loss for words for a moment before replying, "Are you sure you're in the right place, Miss?"

Faith snorted, then replied: "You serve drinks here, right?" The man nodded slowly, and Faith grinned at him and chirped, "Then I'm in the right place—what'ya got?"

The man looked at her for a moment, and Faith would have sworn that his eyes glinted a bit before he reached below the counter and pulled out a bottle that read "Old Oscar's Lava-Brewed Fire Whiskey." Some of the other occupants of the bar were close enough to read the label on the bottle, and they paled and took two steps back. Faith saw the reaction and chuckled before asking, "Looks like you're bringing out the good stuff—how much for a shot?"

"Two galleons." The bartender was not surprised to see the puzzled look on Faith's face, and he elaborated, "Thirty dollars—but the first shot is on the house. It's a tradition, you see." He poured the shot—which was emitting an ominous amount of steam—and took two steps back before concluding, "It's all yours, miss."

Faith gave the man an appraising look, then reached for the shot glass. The bartender was amused—it was not unheard of for muggles to wind up in the bar due to inherent immunity to the concealment magic, and the standard practice was to wait for them to be distracted, zap them with an Obliviate spell, and march them back out the front door. However, if someone had the nerve not to be upset by the surroundings, this was his favored method of dealing with them—one shot of Old Oscar's would knock any muggle as cold as a cucumber and wipe out his or her memories of the evening. He'd drop her off at the train station after closing time, none the worse for the wear except for being confused.

Faith raised the glass and downed its contents in one motion. The sound of forty-odd men inhaling in unison broke the silence briefly, after which there was silence again for fully two seconds before Faith slammed the shot glass down, leaned back, and howled like a banshee as steam poured out of her ears. The bartender paled for the first time as he realized that this young woman was no muggle—muggles just passed out from fire whiskey without any pyrotechnics, and their eyes certainly didn't glow brightly enough to be seen through dark glasses from drinking only one shot. His thoughts were interrupted as he was grabbed forcefully by the collar and given a kiss that would be echoing in his memories decades later in moments when he was alone and otherwise bored. Faith released him, and he fell back against the wall, gasping for air as Faith looked back at him with a lazy, somewhat sated expression and pulled out a roll of bills as she asked, "How much for the bottle?"

It took a few moments of deep breathing and hard swallowing before the man could bring himself to raise two quivering fingers. Faith nodded and pulled out two hundreds, then added a third as she grasped the bottle by the neck and retrieved the shot glass as she called out, "Thanks! Best drink I've had in a while." She walked over to an unoccupied table and poured herself another shot as the bartender poured himself a shot of a somewhat less volcanic spirit and downed it quickly to calm his nerves. His thoughts were evenly divided between, "Who is that girl?" and "I really, really, don't ever want to know who that girl is." Deep down, he was hoping that getting gloriously drunk would settle him on the latter alternative.

The room was about half full, and most of the inhabitants of the room seemed to reach a consensus that they wanted to be as far away from the new arrival as possible without being obvious about it. They slowly drifted to tables along the far wall, and surreptitiously ignored Faith's occasional curious glances in their direction. After a few moments, she shrugged and downed a second shot. The howling was a bit more sedate the second time around, but the steam still poured and Faith's eyes were clearly visible under the glasses this time before they stopped glowing. After she had recovered, she looked up and saw a man in his early twenties, wearing one of the dark robes and looking at her with an expression that she was all too familiar with. _These guys are weird, but some things are the same. _She sighed inwardly before locking eyes with the man and saying, "Yeah?"

"I saw you sitting here and thought you might like some company." The man's accent was rather familiar to Faith, and she tensed up somewhat as he continued, "A bottle isn't a bad companion, but you can do better."

_Not bad. _Faith admitted inwardly. _He's being polite enough, and he's easy on the eyes. _She gave him one more look, and it confirmed her suspicions. She raised her sunglasses and gave him a direct stare as she replied, "Thanks, but I've had enough of English guys for a while—not to mention of guys out for a quick screw with a chickie who's had a little too much to drink. Nothing personal—lot of girls have no problem with either. Good luck with that." She mentally dismissed the man and was contemplating pouring a third shot when she saw a set of palms slamming down on the table in front of her, knocking over the shot glass and almost doing the same to the bottle of Old Oscar's before her superhuman reflexes kicked in and she snatched the bottle out of mid-air. She set it down, then looked calmly up at the now visibly angry man as she whispered silkily, "I'm sorry—was there something else?"

"You drunken little trollop—do you think I have any intention of putting up with your insolence?" The young wizard was a tourist, and had listened to a lot of stories about wild American witches who in legend closely resembled the young lady in front of him—and who would supposedly respond to a forceful approach. He leaned in and grabbed Faith's arm firmly before leaning in to snarl, "If you think I'm going to put up with defiance from a little mudblood bitch like you, you're sadly—URK!"

The last sound had been the result of Faith's hand moving with blinding speed to the young man's throat, and the room seemed to freeze in borderline terror as she lifted him bodily away from the table. With no apparent effort, she shifted her grip and relieved the pressure on his windpipe by grasping the collar of his robe instead, but her voice was level and deadly as she said, "I don't know what that last word meant, but I don't put up with that crap from anyone—and definitely not from a little wimp in a dress." With what looked like a negligent shrug, she tossed the man twenty feet across the room, directly into one of the oak walls, which cracked at the impact. Faith winced slightly at the damage, looked to see that the idiot was still breathing, then walked over to the bartender and peeled off two thousand dollars and offered it to the bartender: "Sorry—that guy was being a jerk. Hope it doesn't cost any more than this to fix."

The bartender shook his head, refusing the money: "It'll be taken care of. Might be best if you leave now, miss—sometimes the authorities come by and they tend to ask questions."

Faith nodded, smiled at the bartender, then—without thinking about it—headed for the clearly marked back exit of the room instead of the one she came in through. The bartender started to open his mouth to warn her, but she was already gone. As he shrugged and went back to his tasks, four wizards looked at each other with predatory expressions, then stood and left the bar through the same exit that Faith had departed through.

* * *

Faith took two steps forward as the door clicked closed behind her, and stared at her new surroundings.

The street she had first entered the bar from had consisted of buildings either built or upgraded in the last twenty years—this one looked like a set from a Charles Dickens story made into a movie. Robed men and women were walking around talking to each other and looking into store windows—which had signs that seemed ordinary at first, but a few of the names started to attract her attention: "Blackstone's Potion Supplies"—"Anaximander's Wands"—"Doolittle's Magical Creature Store." Her first response was to look down at the bottle in her hand suspiciously, but she was already aware that she wasn't particularly drunk—whatever the strange drink's properties were, it didn't seem to have as much of an intoxicating effect as other beverages she had partaken of. She stashed the bottle in her shoulder bag and walked into the bizarre new environment, looking around for boundaries and other new sights.

After about a half an hour, she had discovered that the area was a six block square—about a quarter mile on a side—and with clear barriers at all edges. To get out, she'd either have to leave through the bar or some other business, or she'd have to climb a building and see if she could get out that way. The latter course seemed to her to be a bit drastic, as bars were generally open to late hours and she could always go back to it.

More importantly, she had been listening as she walked, and the conversations of those around her had been enough to give her a good idea of what this place was, and who these people were. There were apparently thousands of people who could use magic by shouting spells and pointing wands, and they called themselves wizards and witches. They hid from the rest of the world, living in their own areas or concealed from the normal humans (they called them "nuggles" or "tuggles" or something like that—the wizard she had been listening to at that time had a bad cold and wasn't too easy to understand), and places like this allowed them to get the things they needed without attracting unwanted attention. _There must have been some magic that keeps normal people from knowing that bar is there, and it didn't work on me because I'm a Slayer._ She smiled to herself. _This looks like it would be a fun place to hang out, if I can find out where to get some of the money they use without having them figure out that I don't belong here._

Faith stopped and frowned. She had walked into an area where the shops had already closed for the night, and a glance over her shoulder revealed that other shops were also closing their doors. She shrugged and turned back towards the entrance to the bar. _I can come back here tomorrow during the day and look for the bank. . .there's got to be one in here that'll switch regular money for wizard money. Then I can do the Giles thing and buy some books to resear--_

"STUPEFY!"

The shout came from the dark alley she was passing, and she turned instantly in time to take a red energy bolt in the chest. She felt a jolt to her system that was like someone whacking her with a large blunt object, and it staggered her for a moment. Her head cleared quickly, and she glared at the robed figure whose wand was still pointed at her as she snapped: "That hurt—and I'm really, really good at payback."

The figure took two steps forward, and three other figures came into view behind him. They were hooded and masked, and Faith felt a chill as the one in front called out, "Oh, we know you are, Slayer." Faith blinked, and the man nodded and elaborated: "That stunner was just to complete the identification after your little display of temper in the tavern. A normal woman your size would have been rendered unconscious by it, or knocked down if your garments were warded against such magic. You hardly reacted to it at all—but there are four of us, and we have far more powerful spells at our disposal to deal with you if necessary. The Dark Lord has ordered us to retrieve you, and we were planning to journey to the Hellmouth when you fell right into our laps—he will be very, very pleased with us." The speaker straightened and ordered in a proud voice:

"Surrender, Buffy Summers—or face your doom."

The Death Eater was startled when the Slayer turned beet red, and was caught completely flatfooted when she snatched at a small stone at her feet and flung it at his head. It clipped his temple hard in spite of the protection of his hood and mask and sent him staggering. As his companions began firing spells, he smacked hard into the alley wall and his world quickly faded away. Just before it did, he heard the Slayer shouting angrily:

"I'M—NOT—BUFFY!"

* * *

A couple of minutes later, Faith was beginning to regret her outburst. Not that she was inclined to surrender meekly to a bunch of sickos in robes who were yelling about serving their "Dark Lord"—avoiding that kind of stupidity definitely fell under B's "don't die!" rule. However, having three guys firing spells designed to smash, slice, and outright kill her for a while had caused her to conclude that simply running like hell while they were still in that alley might have been the way to go. They were coordinating their attacks well—keeping her from finding useful missiles to toss back at them—and she wasn't able to get close enough to use the two stakes in her jacket as effective darts. She was limping slightly—a bludgeoning spell had clipped one of her knees—and a violet streak of light had sliced the right sleeve of her jacket, staining the black leather crimson with dark blood. The injuries weren't slowing her down that much as of yet, but she desperately needed to reduce the odds, and quickly.

A thought occurred to her, and she ran for a nearby building with a long brick wall on one side. The Death Eaters followed, firing more cutting and blasting curses and sending chunks of brick tumbling to the ground. Abruptly, Faith stopped in her tracks, reversed direction, and began doing backflips, catching the Death Eaters off guard as she grabbed a large chunk of brick during one of her flips and landed on her feet before flinging it at the head of the nearest robed figure. A painful sounding "crunch" echoed through the streets, and the Death Eater dropped instantly. Faith grinned ferally, but she moved quickly as the remaining two Death Eaters fired back at her, and swore as another cutting curse sliced the left sleeve of her jacket.

Faith was getting a little desperate—she wondered if she could smash right through the back door of the bar without taking time to open it, allowing her to run through and make it back out onto the street in the mundane world, where she assumed that the secrecy of the magic world would force her attackers to back off at least for the moment. She was preparing to make the last desperate run before her aching knee or blood loss caused her to make a fatal error, when she heard a new voice call out, "STUPEFY!"

_Great, another one of these jokers. _Faith's resigned thought was rising to the front of her mind when she turned and saw one of her attackers slumping to the ground, and the other turning to face the new arrival. She saw long, dark hair trailing down the back of the figure, and a wand leveled at the remaining hooded wizard. A loud, clear male voice with the now-familiar English accent shouted "STUPEFY" again, and the last robed wizard dropped without further ado. The man walked over to Faith and his eyes quickly moved over her, noting the injuries. He looked down into her eyes and asked quietly, "Miss, are you all right?"

Faith blinked in bewilderment. With the end of the fight and the absence of any obvious threats to her, the adrenaline was ebbing from her body and the shock of her injuries abruptly began to catch up with her. She fought the approach of unconsciousness, struggling to get a good look at the face of her rescuer. She only saw a pair of intense green eyes before everything went black.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	5. Chapter 4

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One 

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART FOUR

Harry frowned in concern as the young woman in front of him slumped into unconsciousness, then bent down and swept her into his arms, carrying her into a nearby alley. He glanced at the unconscious Death Eaters and quickly cast a Levitation spell to bring one of them over to him before he examined the wounds of the woman he had just rescued. The arm wounds were still bleeding fairly heavily, and Harry silently thanked Madame Pomfrey for the few days of tutoring she had given him on healing spells as he quickly stopped the bleeding. He could see where the Bludgeoning Hex had caused damage to one of her knees, and another charm relieved the swelling.

The woman seemed to relax as the wounds were relieved, and Harry could see that the wounds were already healing at a rate that went far beyond anything his relatively minor spellwork had accomplished. He shook his head in disbelief—the relatively minor errand that had brought him to High Way had apparently landed him in the middle of something far bigger: something he could not have imagined only two months before as he walked into the Ministry of Magic with a crucial task to complete.

August 2nd, 1999—The English Ministry of Magic

"I'd like to see the Minister, please." The receptionist for the Minister of Magic was engrossed in the latest issue of The Daily Prophet, and did not look up to see who was here to visit her boss, though she registered that the speaker was young and male. After a moment, the voice returned: "If you could tell him I'm here, ma'am, I'm sure that he'd want to see me."

The receptionist smirked, amused enough to raise her eyes from the front-page article about rumored sightings of Harry Potter to react to the intruder. "Minister Scrimgeour has a waiting list of people waiting to see him that contains some of the best known names in the Wizarding World, young man. If you wish to add your name to it, and your business is urgent, you might get in to see him—in about six months. Since I doubt your news is that urgent, I would suggest that—" Her eyes moved up to meet those of the visitor, and the twenty-five year veteran of the Ministry of Magic temporarily forgot how to breathe as she blinked, then looked back down at the front page of The Daily Prophet, then back up at the dark haired young man, who was watching her with an openly amused expression. He wore a black dragonskin suit that the receptionist knew would have cost at least five thousand galleons even at discount, and the famous scar on his forehead was readily visible over the intense green eyes. The receptionist started to speak, and found that the temporary lack of oxygen made the task a Herculean one: "Mis—Pott—so—sorr—I."

There was a click from the door behind the receptionist, and Rufus Scrimgeour sighed in mild irritation as he looked out at the scene. "Matilda—go ahead and take a break for the next hour. You're not much use to me sitting there gasping like a fish. I'll activate the office wards as you go." The receptionist nodded briskly and fled after directing one last apologetic glance at Harry. Harry watched her go, still visibly amused, and it was a few seconds before he turned back to face the Minister. Scrimgeour inclined his head and gestured to the open door as he invited: "Would you care to come in, Mr. Potter?"

Harry inclined his head in response and walked into the office. He had never seen the office during the days when Cornelius Fudge had run the Ministry, and had no idea what to expect from the grim, pragmatic new leader of Wizarding Britain. He saw a medium-sized room with walls that looked as if they had been handcarved by a master craftsman, and those walls were covered with dozens of wizarding paintings and photographs. He noted that the occupants of some of the pictures were looking at him disapprovingly, and he obeyed a sudden impulse by turning and cheekishly winking at a group of them. When he turned back to the Minister, he saw a ghost of a smile on the older man's face, and he realized that—for whatever reason—his impulsive gesture had been the right thing to do. He sat down in the sinfully overstuffed visitor chair that Scrimgeour had pointed him to, and looked over at him as he said simply, "Minister Scrimgeour, I know you're a busy man, so I'll get to the point. You've expressed concerns to me that you believe I can help you with, by cooperation and communicating information in my possession—I've come to offer at least a partial solution to that problem."

Scrimgeour nodded, and Harry was surprised at the genuine-looking amusement on the man's face as he suggested, "Your friend Miss Granger helped you come up with that opening comment, right?"

Harry was tempted to make an outraged retort, but was inhibited by the fact that the Minister was, of course, correct. He shrugged casually and replied, "We both believed it would be a good idea, given the outcome of the last two times we met, that I quickly established my intentions in diplomatically appropriate language." He sighed and added, "From here on in it's just me, Minister—are you interested in what I have to say?"

"Very much so, Mr. Potter." Scrimgeour replied calmly, his eyes focused completely on the young man sitting in front of him. "Please go on."

"I'd be glad to, sir—but I'm going to have to insist on doing so in a place where the walls don't have eyes and ears." Harry stood up and walked to the fireplace, and Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow as Harry tossed in a handful of floo powder and shouted "Hogwarts!" The fire turned green, and Harry turned back to the Minister—who was still sitting: "Are you coming, sir? After a moment, Scrimgeour nodded and followed Harry through the fire.

* * *

They arrived in the room that Harry still called "Professor Dumbledore's Office" in his mind, though it was now Minerva McGonagall who sat behind the large desk and watched as the two wizards tumbled out of her fireplace. The Headmistress called out, "Good afternoon, Mr. Potter. . .Minister Scrimgeour —may I help you with anything?"

"We should be all right, Professor McGonagall. I'll have Dobby bring us some lunch if things go long." Harry replied, glancing over her shoulder and seeing that Professor Dumbledore's portrait still seemed to be slumbering. He nodded to the Headmistress, then headed for the exit of the office, the somewhat-bemused Minister of Magic in tow behind him.

Harry led the Minister to a familiar door, then paced in front of it for a few moments. Scrimgeour was about to ask a question when Harry turned to him and said, "I'm sorry for the silent routine, sir, but I'd guess that an alarm will be raised if you're away too long from your office—and there's a lot I need to tell you, if I can."

The Minister nodded. "I understand—but my secretary is under standing orders to cancel all appointments and hold all calls whenever I should happen to be in a meeting with you, and not to under any circumstances short of the sound of Unforgivables going off in my office to interrupt the meeting without my direct request. We have all the time we need."

Harry blinked, and it was a moment before he could continue. "Well. . .good, then." He pointed to the door and explained, "This is the entry door to the Room of Requirement—we used it to hold meetings of the D.A. last year, and Malfoy—Draco Malfoy. . ."

"…used it to help create a means for sneaking the force of Death Eaters into Hogwarts, leading to Headmaster Dumbledore's death." Scrimgeour's tone was somber, and the look on his face respectful as he watched Harry struggling with his emotions. Harry nodded hesitantly, and the Minister added, "I'm familiar with the basic properties of the Room, Mr. Potter—why are we here?"

Harry took a moment to regain his composure, then gave the same explanation of the discoveries that he, Hermione, and Ron had made about the ability of the Room to cast contingent Obliviate spells. Scrimgeour nodded—fascinated at the powerful and unique manifestation of the work of the Four Founders—and waited for Harry to finish before asking, "If that's the case, why didn't you wait until we were in the Room to tell me this, Mr. Potter? Your leverage over me would have been increased greatly if the fact that I would not be able to reveal or act to thwart your plans was already a _fait accompli_."

"Two reasons, sir." Harry smiled—he had assumed that the Minister would ask this question. Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow in interest and waited. Harry inclined his head and began: "First, our relationship has been a bit testy up to this point—you don't have any reason to trust me, and I don't particularly trust you. Casting a spell on you without your knowledge or permission didn't strike me as a good way to change that for the better. Consider it a gesture of good faith on my part."

Scrimgeour looked at Harry for a long time after that remark, then smiled slightly and replied: "Indeed. And the second reason?"

Harry shrugged and said simply:

"The Tenfold Principle."

The Minister blinked, then bowed ever so slightly in respect as he said, "I'm impressed—most NEWT-level Charms graduates don't know about that. Do we have Miss Granger to thank for this again?"

Harry smirked, and shook his head before replying: "She would have found it eventually, but I've been spending more time than her looking for magical principles that effectively multiply magical power. When you've been up against the most powerful Dark Wizard in the world, you look for ways to increase your own power to compensate—and I found a detailed explanation of The Tenfold Principle in a book in the Restricted Section a few weeks back." He looked at the Minister and added, "You are a powerful wizard, with access to resources that I cannot be fully aware of—it is quite possible that you may be warded against Obliviate spells—even ones as powerful as the Room can cast. But—according to the Tenfold Principle—if you enter the Room knowing what the effects will be, of your own free will without any compulsion whatsoever, then the force of the spell on you will increase by an order of magnitude, making it extremely unlikely that any wards or protections will be adequate to prevent it from operating on you." He paused, then concluded, "Of course, if you decline to enter the Room this meeting will end, and I will escort you back to your office, where things will continue between us as before. It's your choice, Minister."

Scrimgeour was silent for a moment, then emitted a great bark of laughter that reminded Harry momentarily of Sirius, in happier times. The Minister studied Harry for a moment, then said quietly, "Mr. Potter, you have succeeded in vindicating my judgment, if not my reasoning. I _do_ want you to be on my side, and from what I've seen in the last half hour, it'll be for reasons far less superficial than the ones I was contemplating the prior times we spoke." Scrimgeour locked eyes with Harry, inclined his head at the door, and said simply:

"Let's get on with it, then."

* * *

The last memory faded into black, and Harry turned to the Minister—who had been silent during the entire presentation. Scrimgeour looked lost in thought, and Harry waited for a few moments before calling out quietly: "Are you all right, Minister?"

Scrimgeour turned to Harry and laughed briefly—the sound of it was hollow. Harry's eyes narrowed in concern, and he was about to inquire again when the Minister shook his head sadly and said, "It's not every day that you find out that—in spite of your best intentions—you've been behaving like a fool."

Harry's first impulse was to say something comforting, but he realized that the Minister was working through something, and that it would be better to let him finish. After a moment, Scrimgeour blinked, and said quietly, "Mr. Potter. . .I assumed that Dumbledore was involved in some sort of elaborate conflict with He-Who-" Harry frowned, and Scrimgeour hesitated for a moment before inclining his head and amending, "All right, then—with Voldemort. Clearly, the Ministry's conduct had given him little reason to confide in it, even under new leadership—but it was my obligation to find out. The stubbornness of one man—Cornelius Fudge—had allowed Voldemort a whole year to build strength and gain followers without interference, and I couldn't just stand by and take the risk that another man—even a great man like Dumbledore—could do the same thing without at least trying to prevent it. Does that make any sense to you?"

Harry nodded, slowly and reluctantly, and Scrimgeour smiled slightly and continued, "I've never really known what to make of you, Mr. Potter. The circumstances of your survival sixteen years ago were a mystery to me before I entered this room, and even the explanation that Dumbledore gave you strikes me as remarkable almost beyond belief. The fact that you have survived confrontations with Voldemort on repeated occasions since then—even allowing for the substantial assistance you received for some of those occasions—has caused me to believe that you must be charmed in some way. . .even a barrel of _Felix Felicis_ in your bedroom wouldn't have been enough to explain some of your escapes. Whether it was due to you actually being some sort of Chosen One or just blind luck beyond the ability of science or magic to explain, it was inspiring the public—giving them some sort of hope. I didn't know that you were actually going to be able to fight Voldemort—I just knew that I needed to use every last resource I had to oppose him, and all I saw was a symbol, not the man. For what it's worth—I'm sorry. We haven't done right by you—none of us have."

Harry paused for a long moment, then shrugged. "Not much point in dwelling on it now, sir. I wouldn't have brought you here if I wasn't willing to set aside the past in exchange for cooperation." The Minister nodded, looking relieved, and Harry smiled slightly in response as he asked, "So what do we do now?"

"Dumbledore was correct to want to keep this information confined to a very small number of people—if Voldemort gets the slightest whiff of what you're trying to do, he'll go out in force, reclaim the Horcruxes, and hide them behind a Fidelius Charm or something even more foolproof." Scrimgeour's tone was grim, and Harry listened carefully as the Minister continued, "Which means my first impulse—to send out a team of experts with each of you to help find the Horcruxes and protect you at the same time—would be worse than useless, though it would have the benefit of keeping you alive."

Harry shook his head. "I own a house protected by Fidelius, and if I wanted to be safe I could hide there the next fifty years. I'm not doing that, and my friends won't do it, either—though I wish they would." Scrimgeour gave Harry a sympathetic look, but Harry ignored it and concluded, "We'll just have to do the best we can to keep safe without an armed escort, sir."

Scrimgeour nodded, then gave Harry an odd look as he continued, "I'll have to find other ways to assist you. . .unfortunately, one of my first duties will be to completely Obliviate myself of the memories of what you've told me within the Room of Requirement."

Harry stared in shocked silence at the Minister for fully five seconds before managing to utter a strangled-sounding question: "You're going to WHAT?"

"Your safety depends on it, Mr. Potter." Through his shock and confusion, Harry noticed that the Minister suddenly looked very tired, as if he had been carrying a great weight for many miles, and was on the verge of collapse. The realization was enough to calm him down somewhat, and Scrimgeour noticed the reaction and continued, "Mr. Potter—my job may look privileged and glamorous, but it does make me a rather obvious target for Voldemort. Fudge was serving Voldemort's purposes by being passive—I am not. He'd like to see me dead, and if he can capture me first, knowing that we have mended fences and that you might have shared secrets with me, he'll wring me dry of useful knowledge before ending me. Well, he'll do both regardless, but I can't risk having that fact betray you too—your role in ending this madness is too important."

"But. . .you're going to do it to yourself? Why not just let the Room do it?" Harry was cringing inside—to him the idea of self-Obliviating was too much like what Lockhart had done to himself, or like a Muggle doctor performing brain surgery on himself.

"Because, for one thing, I don't intend to interfere with your actions—so the conditions of the Room's Obliviation spell won't trigger." Harry nodded reluctantly in agreement, and Scrimgeour added, "Also—as you've noted, the Tenfold Rule along with my knowledge of my own mind will allow me to do a very thorough job of Obliviation. Self-Obliviation is a Master's subject at the Auror Academy, and I got top marks. Voldemort won't even get a ripple of what you're up to through me, or of the Prophecy."

Harry was utterly frustrated, all the more so because the Minister was making sense, and after a moment he burst out angrily: "You mean that's it? It's too dangerous for you to know what's going on, so we go back to being useless to each other? After all of this?"

"Calm yourself, Harry—that's not what I'm saying at all." Harry noticed that the Minister had called him by his first name for the first time since Harry had come to his office earlier that day, and also that his tone in doing so was no longer of the important man talking down to a schoolboy, but instead sounded like Remus might if he were trying to focus Harry's attention on something important. He took a deep breath and went silent, and the Minister smiled at him as he elaborated, "It's time I showed you some of the advantages of age and experience, Harry." He pulled out his wand and conjured a table with two chairs and a substantial amount of parchment and ink, and the two men sat down before Scrimgeour continued, "Now, we are going to discuss basic issues, and come up with some useful courses of action—after which we are going to send a message to someone not in the know about all of this."

Harry listened as the Minister continued, and smiled as he realized that the day had not been wasted after all.

* * *

Rufus Scrimgeour blinked, then looked at the young man in front of him in mild confusion: "Mr. Potter, were we going to begin with your presentation?"

Harry hesitated for a moment before replying: "We already finished it, sir."

"We have?" Scrimgeour took out his pocket watch—which showed that several hours had passed—and frowned. "I suppose we did. Am I to assume that the Room Obliviated me?"

Harry shook his head. "No, Minister—you did that to yourself."

"I did?" The Minister of Magic was silent for a moment as he searched his thoughts, then smirked as he commented, "And a good job I did of it, too—I can't remember anything from after I entered the Room." He frowned, then commented, "If I decided I needed to self-Obliviate, then you probably have—"

"—a letter to you from yourself, yes. Here it is, sir." Harry handed Scrimgeour the long scroll of parchment, then gestured to two nearby comfortable chairs. The Minister sat down in one and Harry sat in the other as Scrimgeour noted the seal on the scroll—it was his personal seal, and it glowed with a power that could only be explained by his having put it on the scroll in a fully voluntary and knowing manner. His interest piqued, he broke the seal and opened the scroll, stopping only a moment before beginning to read the contents aloud:

_Dear Rufus,_

_As always when this sort of thing happens, you're probably a bit perplexed. Believe me, you're better off that way than with the information you've extracted from your brain. The good news is that Mr. Potter has agreed to help the Ministry in exchange for clandestine assistance with his own activities, which must remain utterly secret for reasons that you are in full agreement with. To that end, you and Mr. Potter have agreed to the following:_

_1. Mr. Potter will make periodic appearances at the Ministry of Magic and at Ministry functions, and will urge the Wizarding community to continue to resist Lord Voldemort. On these occasions, he will have an escort of Aurors handpicked by Mr. Potter himself based on the advice of Kingsley Shacklebolt, Nymphadora Tonks, and Alastor Moody. Also, on these occasions Mr. Potter will not be asked to produce his wand or disarm._

_2. At Mr. Potter's request—and with her consent—Nymphadora Tonks is to be placed on indefinite detached duty with Mr. Potter. You will work with the Chief Auror to come up with a suitable cover story to explain her absence during this time, and will not under any circumstances short of an international incident question Ms. Tonks as to her activities during this time._

_3. Stan Shunpike will be released in two weeks time, as he has established his lack of connection with the Death Eaters to your satisfaction, and you have concluded that a change of approach is in order. You will arrange for suitable monetary compensation for Mr. Shunpike and anyone else found to have been detained for an extended period of time without having been shown to be a Death Eater or otherwise connected to Voldemort, and will concentrate on more effective and efficient ways for identifying Death Eaters._

_4. Mr. Potter, as well as his friends Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley, are to have complete and unrestricted access to the Ministry Libraries, and will be granted access to those libraries through your private entrances, so that they may access and remove works without being monitored by any of the library personnel. Furthermore, you will issue all three of them letters to deal with the unlikely event that they might be detected removing said works, making it clear that they act with the full authority of the Ministry. Under no circumstances should you inquire as to which works they are consulting, and anyone who obtains knowledge of that list must be Obliviated immediately._

_5. You have granted Mr. Potter the power and authority of a Special Operative of the Ministry, and you will make the appropriate notation of that appointment when you return to your office. You have already given him your signet ring and enchanted it appropriately to allow him to act in that role. His assumed name while acting as Special Operative will be Connor Galleon._

Scrimgeour blinked. Special Operatives were as rare as hen's teeth, even in dangerous times such as these, as Wizarding nations had agreed among themselves not to grant too many individuals such power—bad choices in choosing Special Operatives had come close to causing wars on several occasions. A Special Operative was given what Muggles would call "diplomatic immunity"—a Wizarding nation who captured one was bound by treaty to turn him or her over to his home Ministry without otherwise harming him: failure to do so was considered a grave diplomatic offense. He was exempt from laws restricting International Apparation, and was permitted to use intercontinental Floos without showing identification at either end other than the symbol of his home Ministry. Finally, a Special Operative was authorized to use spells in the same manner that an Auror would, including Obliviation spells and use of the Unforgivables for self-defense and in cases of dire need, answering to the Ministry if any abuse was involved for the latter. It was unheard of for anyone but a senior Ministry official or a topline Auror (Mad Eye Moody had been a Special Operative in his younger days before age and injuries began to catch up with him) to receive such an appointment—it was unthinkable that a seventeen year old wizard who had yet to take his NEWTs would have that power thrust upon him. Scrimgeour looked up from the letter and studied Harry for a moment before asking quietly: "I apologize, Mr. Potter. . .but could you show me--?"

Harry raised his left hand, and formed a fist with the flat side pointing towards the Minister. The signet ring with the symbol of the British Ministry of Magic glistened there—the charms on it would have incapacitated Voldemort himself if he donned the ring without permission or extensive preparatory spell work. Scrimgeour nodded, then asked, "Mr. Potter—you've got to be the most recognizable person in the Wizarding world right now. How do you expect to be able to maintain an alternate identity?"

Harry grinned and replied, "I showed you how, sir—you decided that it would be better if you didn't keep that knowledge. Suffice it to say that if you see 'Connor Galleon,' he won't remind you of Harry Potter."

Scrimgeour watched Harry for a moment longer, sighed, then went back to the letter:

_6. You have been presented with convincing evidence that Dolores Umbridge participated in abuse of Hogwarts students that exceeded any orders or mandate given to her by Cornelius Fudge or any other official of the Ministry. You will immediately reassign her to new duties; specifically, to a post as Sub-Consul to the Wizarding State of Siberia._

Scrimgeour raised an eyebrow. "I wouldn't have thought you would be quite that vindictive, Mr. Potter."

"Actually, that was you again, sir." Harry sounded darkly amused, and the Minister shivered a little as the young wizard added, "I wanted to send her back to the centaurs."

Scrimgeour shuddered, then went back to the letter.

_7. In the event that Mr. Potter is killed, you will make a public announcement that the Prophecy destroyed in the Ministry was as follows: **He who survived the unsurvivable will face the Dark One time and again and survive until he reaches his majority. With his fall at the hands of utmost evil, ten thousand champions will arise and strike down darkness, ushering in a new age of light**_

Scrimgeour stared at Harry. "Is that true?"

Harry smirked. "From what you've told me, you can convince yourself that it is with some rituals and a little more Obliviation." He sobered, then added, "If that snake-faced bastard gets you, at least you'll have the satisfaction of knowing that what he'll get out of your mind will scare him to death."

Scrimgeour felt a chill, and looked back down at the letter to dispel it:

8. Keep the pressure on Voldemort. It is crucial that he be thoroughly occupied with the forces of the Ministry—to allow other things that must take place for Voldemort to be defeated to occur without interference.

Scrimgeour nodded to himself, and noticed that Harry looked uncomfortable. Though his Obliviation had been thorough, he was starting to strongly suspect why he had given Harry that appointment. He looked directly at Harry and stated bluntly, "You realize, of course, that a lot of Aurors are likely to die carrying out this order."

Harry paled slightly, but his expression remained calm. "Yes, Minister—I know that."

The Minister nodded, then looked down at the last part of the letter. His eyes widened, and he read the last part silently:

I made him step back when I wrote this part. . .he's a good man, Rufus—and he cares about this world: more than he probably should, given what his life has been up to now. Advise him—even yank him away from the precipice if the occasion calls for it—but believe in him. If you're fortunate, you'll live long enough to find out why you should.

Good fortune,

Rufus Scrimgeour British Minister of Magic

Scrimgeour looked down at the letter for a moment longer, then looked back up at Harry and smiled slightly before standing up. He inclined his head at the door and suggested, "Let's get going, then. I have orders to issue, and you apparently have something to do that I'm not meant to know about." Harry nodded, and the Minister extended his hand to Harry. The younger man shook it firmly, and Scrimgeour added in a whisper:

"Godspeed, Harry."

* * *

Harry watched the Minister disappear into the green fire and closed his eyes. He was feeling completely overwhelmed, and the loss of the Minister as an ally fully in the know—even with the assistance that he was willing to provide following his self-Obliviation—was very painful to him. Professor McGonagall had left the office, and there was no reason to stay longer. He was reaching for a handful of floo powder when he heard a very familiar voice:

"Harry—if I may have a moment of your time, I believe I can continue to assist in spite of circumstances."

Harry felt a surge of joy, which was immediately doused by reality, and he was thoroughly ambivalent when he turned to face the now-fully alert portrait of Albus Dumbledore. He forced a smile and said simply, "I wasn't sure when you'd wake up, sir."

"There is always a time involved in transition when a post-mortem portrait is activated, Harry. It is the price that is paid for the degree of sentience and detailed memories that the portrait receives." Harry forced himself to listen and to meet the eyes of the portrait—which did not twinkle. The portrait sighed and continued gently, "Harry—after what happened last year I feel the need to make a matter clear immediately. My death should not trouble your conscience—I insured that you could not interfere, and I was aware of the risks involved in my temporary weakness from our expedition. I am enjoying the next great adventure, and have left this part of myself behind to advise you and others to the best of my ability—within limits, of course."

Harry nodded, slowly and with difficulty, before replying: "Thank you, Professor. Is there anything you would like to know?"

Dumbledore nodded, and leaned forward eagerly as he asked, "What of the Horcrux, Harry—have you managed to destroy it?" Harry paled, and Dumbledore's expression twisted with sudden concern. "Was someone hurt by the destruction?"

Harry swallowed hard, and told him of how he had discovered the false locket with the note. Dumbledore listened without interrupting, and nodded as Harry finished before commenting, "There was no way you could have known, Harry—you were distracted by my condition, and I was far too disoriented to note that the amulet was a fake. In any event, this is an important development—we know that at least one other person was privy to Voldemort's secret, and we also have to determine whether that amulet has actually been destroyed—probably by determining who R.A.B. is. That may be a formidable task—though I would suggest starting with a list of deceased known and accused Death Eaters, as they would have been the individuals most likely to be in a position to both have the knowledge and the opportunity to betray Voldemort."

Harry frowned. He had not been concentrating on uncovering the identity of R.A.B. during the weeks after his departure, but it was definitely going back to near the top of his list. "I'll pass that advice on to Hermione, sir. Was there anything else you wanted to know?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "Nothing specific, Harry—I'd just like to be kept up to date as much is as practical. Given the research and other investigations you are involved with, I might recognize a name, a place, or a spell that you are not familiar with, and can assist in that manner." Harry nodded, and Dumbledore sighed and looked sadly at the young wizard as he said, "Harry—I do have one piece of advice for you above all others. Do not let a desire for vengeance cloud your reasoning and interfere with your ultimate goals. You are undoubtedly inclined to seek out certain individuals for their roles in the deaths of persons you cared for—I can only urge you to put aside that impulse, and to continue on your mission. In making it possible to destroy Voldemort and then carrying that destruction out, you will achieve the greatest possible vengeance on those who deserve it. If you must defend yourself against those persons in carrying out your mission, then by all means do so: but please, Harry—do not seek them out."

Harry scowled, and was silent for a moment before beginning: "Professor—about Snape--?"

"Harry—it is too soon for us to discuss that matter." Dumbledore's voice was soft, and filled with regret. Harry watched , more than a little angry, as Dumbledore looked to the side and continued, "Severus has made his choices, and he must live with the consequences, as must we all. Again, I must urge you not to seek him out for purposes of revenge—in some ways, he poses a more formidable risk to you than Voldemort himself: he knows you better, and is sadly adept at provoking you. The time may come when you are forced to fight for your life against him, and it will be better if it happens after you are more powerful, better trained, and have gained more perspective on the overall situation than you possess at the moment. Am I making sense, Harry?"

"I suppose so, sir." Harry was not completely convinced, but had to admit to himself that Snape had held him off without much apparent effort—he needed to improve his abilities before he faced the treacherous Potions Master again.

Dumbledore smiled and nodded. "Excellent, Harry. Now, before you go—an old friend wanted to see you again." A flash of fire burst out of nowhere, and a phoenix appeared on the corner of the Headmistress' desk.

"Fawkes!" Harry cried out, stepping forward to stroke the feathers of the magical bird. Fawkes let out a low, pleased cry, and Harry continued, "I thought. . .I thought you were gone for good after the Professor died."

"He was—at least in the sense that Hogwarts is no longer his home and his chosen companion is no longer alive." Dumbledore's tone was somber and respectful, and Harry went silent, still shocked at the sudden appearance of the creature who had helped save his life on more than one occasion. "He has returned because he still loves this world, and would like to choose a new companion to allow him to continue to live within it and help it survive."

Harry blinked, and quickly made the connection. "Me? Fawkes wants to live with me?" The phoenix looked directly at Harry and seemed to nod slightly as he let out an exuberant trill. Harry felt a moment of excitement, then realized something that caused his mood to plummet. Fawkes reached out a wing to nudge Harry, and Harry turned to the phoenix and explained, "I'd love it if you lived with me—but I'll be constantly traveling now. I'm going to disguise Hedwig and use her for messages. . .but you always seemed so comfortable here with Professor Dumbledore, having someone with you all the time. I can't give that to you—not now."

Fawkes took flight and landed on Harry's right shoulder before giving him a friendly nudge with his head. Dumbledore laughed and commented, "It seems that Fawkes is willing to live with an absentee companion, Harry." Harry laughed involuntarily and looked up at Fawkes as Dumbledore continued, "I'd suggest putting his perch at 12 Grimmauld Place, Harry—Dobby would undoubtedly be more than happy to make sure Fawkes is adequately cared for. He can travel freely on his own, and—as was the case in the Chamber of Secrets—he will be able to come to the aid of those who have pledged their loyalty to you in time of utmost need." Dumbledore looked sadly at Fawkes and concluded, "Fawkes was at my side for over a hundred years, Harry—I hope that you two share an even longer connection."

Harry blinked, and felt tears come as he replied, "Thank you, Professor. I have to go—"

"Indeed. Your life will have little time for moments like this, Harry—I hope that you can derive some enjoyment for the ones that do come." Professor Dumbledore inclined his head to Harry. "Until we meet again." The eyes of the portrait closed, and Fawkes let out a trill and vanished in a flash of fire. Harry gave the portrait one last thoughtful look before reaching for the Floo Powder.

* * *

Harry tumbled out of the Floo at 12 Grimmauld Place, which now terminated in Harry's private office. He saw Remus and Tonks staring at Fawkes, who was perched on the corner of a low bookcase and watching them. Harry called out, "Hello, Fawkes." The phoenix let out a trill of greeting, and Harry turned to his friends and asked, "What's the matter—haven't you ever seen a phoenix before?"

Remus glared mildly at Harry before replying, "We've been worried—your meeting with the Minister took far longer than we might have expected."

Harry grinned wickedly, and responded much as his father or Sirius might have: "I'm sure you two managed to find a way to pass the hours, Moony."

Remus blushed crimson, and Tonks began to laugh. Harry smiled involuntarily—the change in Tonks since she had broken down Remus' sales resistance had been heartening; if anything, she was more cheerful and unconcerned with propriety than she had ever been. She looked over at Harry with a lazy smile and replied, "Yes—but he's a gentleman and won't tell tales out of school, Harry. Now—how about telling us what happened?"

Harry complied with the request—leaving out any mention of the Prophecy or Horcruxes—and concluded by repeating the provisions of the letter that Scrimgeour had written before Obliviating himself. Tonks whistled when he finished: "He made you a Special Operative? I almost thought they were myths—there can't be more than a couple of others in the entire country, and I've never met one." Harry displayed the signet ring, and Tonks shook her head in disbelief. "Harry—I've been all right with you keeping us in the dark on this, for the same reasons that the Minister Obliviated himself, but I don't mind telling you that the fact that he was willing to give you that kind of power scares me."

"And me as well, Harry." Remus sounded disturbed, and Harry waited for him to continue: "The Minister was right, Harry—you're about as likely to go unrecognized as the President of the United States would be walking down the street in Muggle America. How are you going to pretend to be 'Connor Galleon'?"

Harry blinked, then turned to Tonks and asked, "You didn't tell him?"

Tonks raised an eyebrow. "I'm a trained Auror, Harry—we don't go around spilling secrets even when we've got other things on our minds."

Harry smiled apologetically, then turned to Remus—removing his glasses as he did so. His features blurred, and the scar on his forehead vanished. His hair lengthened until it looked like a dark version of Lucius Malfoy's notable mane. His height increased significantly as a Switching Spell triggered, causing the black dragonskin suit to vanish and be replaced with a normal dress robe. His nose lengthened slightly, his cheekbones grew more heightened, and his lips thinned. When he had finished, only the green eyes even remotely suggested that the person standing in front of the astounded werewolf was Harry Potter. Tonks—who had been watching the process with a pleased smile--frowned and asked, "No luck in getting the eyes to change, huh?"

Harry shook his head. "No—and I've been trying in the mirror for a week now since our last session together." He noticed the resigned expression on Tonks' face, and he commented: "You don't look surprised."

Tonks shook her head. "I was hoping that I was wrong, and it was something that you'd work through with practice." Harry frowned, puzzled, and Tonks hastened to explain: "Metamorphmagi always have one feature that they are unable to change, no matter how hard they try or practice to overcome it. Obviously, the more prominent of a feature that it is, the more it hampers the ability to create an effective disguise." She studied Harry and suggested, "We're just lucky that it wasn't the scar. . .oh well, at least it's not stopping you from correcting your eyesight by moving the muscles around—without glasses, people will be less likely to think it's you even if they're suspicious. Other than that, you're just going to have to use Muggle sunglasses, or maybe colored contact lenses if it's dark."

Remus—wisely deciding to put aside the question of how long Harry had known he was a Metamorphmagus—frowned and turned to Tonks: "What feature can't you change? I've never noticed any part that you couldn't change."

Tonks looked up and met Remus' gaze as she wrapped her arms around his neck and replied, "I'll show you later if you're good—but business before fun, love." Remus blushed again, and Harry suppressed a snicker as Tonks turned back to Harry and ordered briskly, "All right, then—let's work on a training schedule for the next two weeks. If you're going to insist on running around the world as a Special Operative, I'm going to make sure you know every nasty Auror-approved trick I can teach you before you head out."

Harry nodded, but Remus spoke up again: "Wait a minute—you agreed to make public appearances for the Ministry, and by implication a substantial number of them. How are you going to do that and run around the world as Connor Galleon at the same time?"

Harry smirked and inclined his head at Tonks. Remus turned, and jumped back as he realized that he was being embraced by. . .Harry Potter. "Harry" quirked an eyebrow at Remus and asked in Harry's voice: "What's the matter? Don't you love me any more?"

After the events of the day, this image was too much for Harry, who sank to the floor laughing uncontrollably, as Fawkes sang contentedly and Remus glared at the woman he loved as she stood there laughing, in the guise of the most famous figure in the Wizarding world.

* * *

After that last feverish two weeks of training, Harry had immediately departed, following leads that Hermione and Ron uncovered as to where information about Hufflepuff's Cup or any unknown artifacts of Godric Gryffindor might be located. In his guise as Connor Galleon, he had spoken to more than a few shady characters, and spent a substantial amount of time and money in acquiring obscure texts that existed in no libraries. As October began, he had not developed any solid leads, though he was getting a good idea of how wide Voldemort's influence had stretched, as he had avoided encounters with Death Eaters by only narrow margins in Tokyo, Nairobi, and Miami before his latest expedition had brought him to the Wizarding business center of High Way in Southern California. The grouping of four Death Eaters openly trying to capture or kill the young woman had been too much to ignore, and watching that young woman in action against the deadly Dark Wizards had caused him to come to a stunning realization:

She was a Slayer.

He studied the face of the young woman, and his eyes narrowed in puzzlement. He dismissed the thought and laid her gently down against a wall, then cast a levitation spell to bring one of the unconscious Death Eaters over to him. He put the man down against the same wall the young woman was sitting, then pulled a small box out of his pocket. He placed a hand of each of his charges against the box, then put his own hand on it as he called out: "Refuge."

Without a pause, the three persons disappeared from the alley—leaving three unconscious Death Eaters for the Magical Law Enforcement officers to discover when they arrived thirty seconds later.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	6. Chapter 5

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One 

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART FIVE

Faith felt herself gradually come back to awareness, and she automatically maintained her slow breathing while she tried to remember exactly what had been happening when she lost consciousness. It had been one of the few pieces of advice from Buffy that she had taken to heart without hesitation: _Every time you wake up, don't move, don't let your breathing change if you can avoid it until you remember what you were doing when you fell asleep or got knocked out, and you can get a feel for where you are. Usually, you'll remember falling asleep in your own bed and realize that you're still there. But when that's not what happened. . .taking the time to figure out what's up might save your life._

She remembered having been in a nasty fight—always a bad start. She remembered having been wounded—also bad. She had a vague memory of someone coming to her rescue—good, but an unknown element in the situation. She felt a soft mattress—softer than her own—and felt the touch of silk sheets, which brought back memories of the brief months when she was still living with her first Watcher. The air smelled clean, though she detected the faint but obvious scent of a well-bathed man. She heard even breathing from about ten feet away, and further concentration revealed a heartbeat from that same direction. She seemed to be dressed—not that being nude would have stopped her from fighting back—and testing her muscles revealed that her injuries had healed. _Good_. She tensed, then hurled herself at the sound of the breathing and heartbeat as she opened her eyes. She'd try not to hurt the man, but she wasn't about to leave herself at the mercy of—

--the dummy filled with rags that she had just tackled and knocked to the ground. Faith blinked in shock, and realized that the dummy still was making breathing sounds and had a heartbeat. She glared at the inert object and snarled: "What the hell--?"

A brief flash of light from behind her attracted her attention, and she whirled to see a tall man standing on the other side of the room. His wand was pointed downward, and Faith tensed for a moment, considering her chances of reaching him before he could raise his wand. The man called out, "Please don't do what I'm fairly certain you're thinking of doing, miss—I'm a fast draw and while Stunning won't kill you, it smarts." Faith relaxed slightly—noting the rather light-hearted nature of the threat—and the man nodded at the dummy and added, "Sorry about the deception—given your abilities, I thought it would be a good idea to make sure you wouldn't take my head off out of sheer reflex." Faith stared, and the man smiled at the reaction as he bowed slightly and concluded:

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Slayer."

Faith frowned and considered how to respond. _Seems like these wizards know all about Slayers, so the rules about secrecy don't matter. Might as well see what this guy has to say._She straightened up—keeping her stance relaxed to avoid provoking the wizard into attacking—and asked bluntly, "So—why don't you think I'm Buffy Summers? The idiots in the masks thought that I was B."

The wizard reached behind him and tossed a blonde wig into the center of the room as he replied, "For one thing—I'm pretty sure that Miss Summers' hair isn't a wig." Faith reached up involuntarily and encountered her own short haircut, and the wizard nodded before adding, "Besides, I've seen Buffy Summers' picture in the papers, even if those idiot Death Eaters didn't bother to find out what she looked like. You're very beautiful—but you don't look like her." Faith raised an eyebrow at the spontaneous compliment, and the wizard noted the reaction and paused in evident unease before continuing, "You're a Slayer, but Buffy Summers is alive and well in Sunnydale—this is a very odd situation."

"It's a lot odder living it." Faith sighed, and moved back to sit on the bed she had been lying on as she studied her surroundings. The room was a large bedroom about twenty feet square, with a queen-sized bed in one corner, against the wall opposite the only visible door. There were no windows in the room, which was well-furnished with what looked like contemporary chairs and tables. The walls were painted white. The man standing across the room from her had long, dark hair and wore casual clothing that would not have looked out of place on the streets near her home. She studied him for a moment, then decided that she wanted to know more: "Why did you risk getting your head blown off in that fight? What are Death Eaters, and why did they want to grab me?"

The man looked back at her—obviously studying her as intently as she was studying him—and replied, "The Death Eaters are the followers of a very powerful Dark Wizard who is based in England—though his ambitions will ultimately cause him to seek control of the entire world. There are many reasons he might want to gain control of a Slayer—the most obvious ones would be to have her as a powerful warrior, or to use her to provide ingredients for powerful Dark spells and potions. Or both, I suppose." Faith shivered involuntarily, and the man added, "As for why I helped you—I saw four Death Eaters attacking an innocent person in the streets of High Way, and I don't tolerate that sort of thing. . .even when it turned out that she was rather good at defending her own person."

Faith stared at the man—he had uttered that last sentence with a ferocity and sincerity that she felt straight down to her bones, and she would have sworn that his eyes—which were a startling green—had glowed for a moment with that intensity. She shook off the feeling and managed to reply, "Well—thanks. Appreciate the help." A familiar impulse hit her, and she forced it down. _There's no way in hell that I'm knocking boots with one of these wizards, even if he did just save my ass. _She took another moment to compose herself, and said simply: "Now, if you don't mind—I'd like to get the hell out of here. I've got things to do and people to see."

The man nodded slowly, then responded, "You're free to go if you want to." He pointed to a table in the corner and added, "Your shoulder bag is over there, and you can see the wig is in front of you." Faith nodded briskly and stepped forward—only to be stopped in her tracks by the man's next sentence: "If you'll listen, however, I have a better offer for you."

Faith scowled at the wizard. "I spent less than a day in your world, and almost got turned into potion ingredients by a gang of psycho wizards. Thanks, but I like being alive." The man frowned, and Faith counted to ten in her head before sighing in exasperation and adding: "Fine. I've got a little time to listen—but I'm starving. Do you have any food in this place?"

The wizard smiled and called out: "Dobby!"

Faith blinked as a soft "pop" sounded throughout the room, and a very odd creature appeared in front of the wizard. It appeared to be about a foot and a half tall, with a disproportionately large head with huge eyes and large, pointed ears along with a prominent nose. It was wearing what looked like a waiter's uniform, and it looked up at the wizard with evident adoration as it piped up: "Dobby is here, Ha—" The wizard seemed to give Dobby a momentary stern glance, and the creature paused before continuing: "—Mr. Special Operative. How may I serve you?"

"My guest is hungry, Dobby." Dobby turned, and his huge eyes seemed to widen further as he began to shiver with fear, though he also took a couple of steps back towards the man, as if to protect him. The man frowned, then seemed to have an "oh" moment as he explained, "Yes, she's a Slayer, but she won't hurt you, Dobby."

"He's right—I'm more likely to kiss you than kill you if you're bringing food, Dobby." Faith felt an irrational impulse to put the creature at ease, and her comment caused Dobby to visibly relax. Faith intentionally smiled at Dobby and added, "Well, I probably won't kiss you—but dinner would be nice. What can you get us?"

"Whatever you and Mr. Special Operative would like, Miss Slayer." Dobby seemed to have recovered from his fright, and he walked over to Faith and asked quietly, "What would you like?"

After some thought, Faith ordered a sixteen-ounce steak, with a baked potato and a beer. Dobby turned to the wizard—who simply said "The usual, Dobby." Dobby looked a little disappointed, but vanished without speaking further.

Faith stared at the spot where Dobby had been, and turned to the wizard: "What was that?"

"Dobby? He's a house elf—they act as servants for well-off wizards and witches. Most are bound in servitude—Dobby is a free elf helping me out of friendship." Faith noted the undertone of affection in the man's voice, and was silent as he continued, "Apparently, there were cases in the past when Slayers mistook house elves for hostile creatures and. . .well, it didn't turn out too well for the house elves. Thank you for putting him at ease."

Faith shrugged. "If you wanted me dead, or wanted to turn me over to that Dark Wizard, you could have done it already. . .and since I'm still dressed, I'm guessing you won't have Dobby spike the food with Roofies now." The man flushed scarlet and shifted uncomfortably, and Faith noted the reaction and filed it away for future consideration before changing the subject: "I'm sick of this 'Miss Slayer' crap. My name is Faith."

The man hesitated, then replied quietly: "Very well, Faith—I am Special Operative Connor Galleon of the English Ministry of Magic."

Faith looked at Connor for a moment, and burst out laughing. The Special Operative glared at the Slayer and asked frostily: "What's the joke?"

Faith looked over at Connor, and her eyes danced with open amusement as she replied, "Oh, come on—no one is really named 'Connor Galleon.' Why didn't you just go all the way and say 'My name is Bond—James Bond'?"

Faith watched the wizard as he continued to glare at her for a moment before sighing and admitting, "All right—you've caught me. My duties as a Special Operative put me in conflict with any number of dangerous individuals—I've taken this name to protect myself and those close to me from reprisals."

Faith frowned. _A name change alone wouldn't help: he must be disguised somehow. He's chosen a flashy look to keep anyone of suspecting who he really is._ She gave him a skeptical look and inclined her head as she replied, "All right, 'Connor'—have it your way. Why don't you tell me what your deal is while we wait for Dobby to get back with the chow?"

Faith saw Connor slump slightly—as if in relief—and listened as the wizard looked over at her and began, "I should begin by asking a question: are you aware of the events that took place at Sunnydale High School in June?"

Faith nodded. "Not every day that a high school blows sky high—it made the papers all over the place. I lived there long enough to know the 'broken gas main' story was a lot of crap—the Mayor was a Big Bad and I was running from his crew when I left town. Let me guess—your newsies got the real scoop on what happened there?"

Connor nodded, and pulled out a couple of copies of The Daily Prophet and tossed them over to Faith. Faith—who had seen a few Wizarding photos at High Way—hesitated only a moment at the lurid photos before moving on to the details of the story. She raised an eyebrow when she read that Giles had been interviewed for the story. _The Watchers must have known about the wizards all along—love to hear the backstory on that._ When she finished, she was surprised at how relieved she was that Buffy and her friends had all survived, but quickly forced that line of thought down and commented, "All right, it looks like B and the Scoobies had a busy time after I left—what's it got to do with what you wanted to talk about?"

The Special Operative looked at Faith grimly and replied, "Faith—the Wizarding World knows about the Slayer, but they don't think about her much: we live in an entirely different culture, and the Council of Watchers has authority over—" Faith snorted loudly, and Connor hesitated for a moment before continuing: "—matters relating to the Slayer that supercedes that of the World Ministries of Magic. Unfortunately, the events in Sunnydale have apparently reminded Lord Voldemort—the Dark Wizard I mentioned earlier—that the Slayer exists and is a powerful warrior. The fact that the Death Eaters mentioned Buffy Summers' name—and that they attacked you in the first place—suggests to me that Voldemort wants to capture a Slayer and bend her to his will. The fact that you are a Slayer while Buffy Summers still lives will be new information to Voldemort, if one of those Death Eaters manages to escape custody or gets a message back to him. The Hellmouth is a hostile environment for my kind—the dimensional energies disrupt detection spells and the dark creatures there are far more formidable than most that can be encountered elsewhere in the world. You will be a far more attractive and vulnerable target living away from the Hellmouth than Buffy Summers is while living in Sunnydale—I would like to take steps to make you safer and enable you to fight back better should more Death Eaters be sent on your trail."

Faith smirked. "So what's the plan? You keep me here for a few weeks and teach me how to swish one of those little sticks around?"

"That's part of it, yes." Connor saw the skepticism on Faith's face, and hastened to explain: "I've done some research—the magical power within a Slayer is similar to the magical cores within wizards and witches. With training, I should be able to teach you how to cast certain spells that you will find useful. You shouldn't overdo it, as you would be tapping the source of your powers and overuse of that energy will weaken you, but there are situations where the trade-off should be worth it. Also, I would like to show you some of the more dangerous spells in existence, so that you can recognize the incantations associated with them and know what their effects are likely to be before you are affected by them. Lastly, I would like to teach you all I can about the Wizarding World, so that you can understand who the players in it are and which ones are likely to be a threat to you."

Faith felt a tingle of interest, but managed to keep a poker face as she commented, "That's a lot of things you're offering to do for someone you've just met. What's the catch?"

"Well, for one thing you'd have to stay here: this house is protected by a charm that prevents anyone from finding it unless I let them in on the secret of its location. Since my purpose is to protect you, it makes sense that we should stay where you are safe until I have shown you all I can." Connor looked at Faith, and saw that she looked receptive. He cleared his throat and continued, "Also—I would like to know about your life and experiences: it will help me know what I need to show you, and—to be honest—the stories of a real, live Slayer are something that I'd like to hear, if you're willing to share them."

Faith was about to reply when the sound of a bell suddenly echoed through the room. Connor smiled and commented: "Dinner is ready." He led Faith out of the bedroom and through a short hallway into a large dining room with a small table set for two. Faith's eyes fell on the steak on her plate and her mouth watered: she had been eating much better since leaving Sunnydale, but that was one fine looking piece of beef. She quickly found her seat, and saw that Connor had a rather simple looking meal of sliced roast beef, mashed potatoes, and cooked carrots. Connor saw her examining his plate and shrugged: "It's my favorite—but Dobby is always disappointed that I don't force him into being more creative." He turned to where the house elf was waiting quietly, and called out, "Well done, Dobby—I'm sure that Faith appreciates your efforts."

Dobby nodded, and seemed about to disappear again when he realized that Faith was standing next to him. He flinched momentarily, but forced himself to look up at the Slayer—who looked strangely hesitant. He blinked and asked, "Is there anything that Dobby can do for you, Miss Faith?"

Faith was silent for a moment, then said quietly, "Connor told me about why you were scared earlier, Dobby." Dobby's eyes widened, and he nodded once. Faith crouched down and looked directly into the house elf's eyes as she continued, "They didn't know, Dobby. I wasn't there, and I don't know exactly how those times went down, but they didn't know. Maybe their Watchers didn't teach them right, or maybe the house elves caught them off guard and they thought they needed to protect themselves, but if they had known they were attacking someone like you, they wouldn't have done it." She reached out gently and squeezed Dobby's shoulders as she whispered: "I _won't_ do that."

Dobby blinked again, and the emotion was visible on his face as he replied, "Dobby knows, Miss Faith. Thank you." He stepped back and added, "Dobby will let Mr. Special Operative and Miss Faith eat in peace now." He vanished, and Faith looked at the place where he had been for a moment before going back to her seat and attacking her steak without looking at Connor.

Connor glanced at Faith, then went back to his own meal. They both finished about fifteen minutes later, and Connor looked over to see that Faith was staring at her empty plate. He smiled and said, "Penny for your thoughts?"

Faith looked up, and her expression was visibly uncomfortable as she replied, "I'm not usually big on trust, Connor. I left Sunnydale because of trust issues—which I'm not ready to go into—and I sure haven't let anyone in since I left there eight months ago. You're asking me to put myself in your hands for weeks, maybe months, in a place where no one knows I'm here except you and a house elf who obviously thinks you're the greatest thing ever. I just don't do that sort of thing." Connor sighed sadly, and was about to open his mouth when Faith added, "Which makes me wonder just how crazy I am when I'm going to say 'yes.'"

Connor blinked, and Faith nodded as she continued, "You saved my ass, and even after you were done with that you could have just left me back in that bar or with the cops and not cared what happened to me after that. You sure aren't friends with those freaks in the masks, and anyone with Dobby as a friend must have something going for him—so I'm going to give it a shot. If I don't like it, I'll leave, and you don't try to stop me, because I really don't want to beat the crap out of you. Sound like a plan?"

Connor nodded, and extended his hand. Faith reached out and shook it firmly, and studied her host thoughtfully. –_Besides, it'll give me time to figure out what your big secret is, "Connor." _She released his hand and asked, "So—where do we start?"

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	7. Chapter 6

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART SIX

"Expelliarmus!"

Harry watched as the scarlet jet of light left his wand and struck the dummy squarely, causing it to quiver but not move much otherwise. He turned to the brunette next to him and explained, "That is the Disarming Hex—it is taught at Hogwarts to second years. If it strikes someone with an object in either hand, it will knock them backwards with force and cause their muscles to spasm—they will almost certainly drop anything in their hands. If the hex strikes someone with empty hands, the hex will be far less effective, though it will still sting and might act as a momentary distraction. It is a useful hex that doesn't use much in the way of power—when we procure a wand for you I will teach you how to cast it. I'm sure you'll find something to use it for."

Faith grinned at Harry and replied, "You got that right, C."

Harry nodded and considered what spell to demonstrate next, as he turned away from Faith to keep her from seeing his expression. It had been three days since they had agreed to exchange information as part of a temporary alliance, and it had been memorable even by the standards of his life since Hagrid had found him over six years before.

* * *

The relatively short period of time that Harry had taken to convince Faith to accept his arrangement had been a pleasant surprise for him. After that first dinner, he had introduced her to the downstairs training room and—at her request—created a few training dummies for her to work on. Harry left to allow her to change into training clothes, and he had gone to his private study and thrown up a silence charm over the door before going straight to the fireplace and tossing a handful of floo powder in as he shouted "REMUS LUPIN!" and stuck his head into the green flames. He saw Remus sitting alone on the sofa, looking at some paperwork. After a moment, the werewolf glanced over and called out, "To what do I owe the pleasure of a call from the great and powerful Connor Galleon?" 

Harry thought about a suitably snarky reply, but decided that the truth would have a much more satisfying impact: "I thought you'd like to know that there's a Slayer in the basement training room of my residence in California."

Harry had waited until Remus had reached for a sip from the glass of red wine next to him, and the result was as he had expected: Remus gasped in mid-swallow and wound up spitting a large amount of wine out on the new robes that Harry had given him for his last birthday. Harry laughed as Remus glared at him and cast a strong cleaning charm to dispose of the wine stains. After he had restored his dignity, Remus stared in irritation at his young friend and growled, "It's not nice to joke about things like that, Harry."

"I know—but I'm not joking. I saved her from a bunch of Death Eaters, and the amazing thing about it is—she's not Buffy Summers." Remus' eyes widened at the last part of Harry's calm reply, and he was about to interrupt when Harry quickly cut him off and told him what had happened. Remus was quickly fascinated by the account and did not attempt to speak again until Harry finished, then looked uncomfortably at him and added, "Remus—did I do the right thing? I mean, if Voldemort is trying to kill or capture her we can't just leave her out on her own, can we?"

Remus chuckled. "Harry, you _do_ have a way of getting into interesting situations. You certainly did the right thing in getting her out of immediate danger and offering her shelter: a Slayer in the hands of Voldemort would be a bad thing indeed, and this one—aside from the odd fact that she exists at all with Buffy Summers still being alive—is out on her own for some reason. There have been reports that Miss Summers is on the outs with the Council of Watchers, and that she is no longer taking their orders—it may be the same with Faith. As it happens, I am casually acquainted with Rupert Giles—his mother was a muggleborn witch who was murdered by Death Eaters, and he will have followed recent events in our world with great interest, I am sure. The same reports say that he is no longer working for the Council—if there is a reason for Faith to be avoiding them, I am sure that he will not betray her to them."

Harry had nodded and replied, "Sounds like a good plan—don't tell him who's protecting her, though. Not that I don't trust Mr. Giles, but I don't want to drag him or Buffy Summers into this unless it's necessary. You were right—the work of the Slayer is too important to be interrupted by little things like finishing off Tommy Riddle."

Remus had shuddered slightly after Harry's light-hearted remark, but he had shaken it off and the two had moved on to lighter subjects for a while before Harry left to return to his guest. He had found Faith in a good mood—she had changed into workout gear and had been mercilessly beating on the training dummies that had been provided for her. She kept going for some time after Harry arrived, and the young wizard was transfixed by the sight. He was used to watching wizards duel, all billowing robes and flashing spells, with simple physical motion being but a tertiary concern, if that—very few wizards would be candidates for the Muggle Olympic Games in gymnastics or any other event. Faith moved with the graceful menace of an angry panther, circling her target as she studied it, then moving with a blur of stunning violence, directing kicks and punches at the "vital" areas of the dummy, and concluding with a strike to what would be its heart. Her eyes shone, and her skin shimmered with light perspiration. Harry blinked once, twice, then realized that—though his knowledge of some proprieties was limited by the cloistered nature of his upbringing by the Dursleys and his time at Hogwarts—it was completely inappropriate for a man of the age he appeared to be to be staring at a young woman the age that Faith had admitted to being. He shook his head to clear it, then noted that Faith was studying him with an amused expression. Harry gritted his teeth inwardly, and stepped forward, calling out, "That was a remarkable display, Faith—that's certainly not what we're used to seeing in the Wizarding World."

Faith's lips turned upwards at the corners slightly, and Harry squirmed a little before the Slayer openly broke into a grin and replied, "I wish I had these dummies back in Sunnydale—me and B had to settle for more breakable ones, or Xander wearing more padding than the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man." Connor grinned involuntarily, and Faith blinked. "Wasn't sure you'd know that one—were you raised by Muggles?"

"My parents died in the first war with Voldemort—I was raised by her sister and her family: they are muggles." Harry kept his voice calm, but inwardly he was shaken by the sudden inquiry into his past. _Stop worrying—she doesn't know enough to make the connection between their deaths and 'The Boy Who Lived" _Faith frowned in concern, and Harry shook his head to dismiss the issue. "It was a long time ago—but I think you could guess that I'm motivated to defeat Voldemort for good, even if it means putting my own life on the line."

"Yeah—I've got that message loud and clear, C." Faith was watching Harry intently, and it took a considerable amount of effort for the young wizard to remain composed under the relentless attention. After a few moments, Faith smiled easily and asked, "So—what's the plan?"

Harry had summoned comfortable chairs and a table for the room, and they worked out a rough plan with a lot of time for changes if they decided it was a good idea. During the day, Faith would be free to train, rest, and read as she wished while Connor was out conducting his investigations—he had supplied a selection of wizarding newspapers from all over the world, and had retrieved a selection of history books that would give Faith a strong grounding in the basic structure of Wizarding society and its relatively recent history without the mind-numbing boredom that Hogwarts students experienced at the hands of Professor Binns. She would save any questions she had for when Connor returned and after they had both eaten dinner. Once they had eaten and any questions Faith had for the day were answered, they would retire to the training room, where Connor would demonstrate spells and explain their usage. Faith had offered to train Connor to fight without spells, but Connor had looked back at her and replied, "That's a generous offer, but I'll decline with thanks, Faith. I'm already very quick, and I intend to be dodging my opponents and firing back at them—not beating them up. I'm watching your moves carefully, though—" Faith snickered, and the wizard took a moment to direct a cool look at her before continuing: "—and I may ask you to demonstrate some of them for me to adapt for my own uses: I don't have a Slayer's speed and agility, but I'm no slouch."

Faith sighed. "I get your point—no use risking breaking something when the moves you'd learn won't do you any good. . .but I was hoping for a live opponent. I get a bit itchy when I haven't had a good fight in a while."

Harry smiled and pointed his wand towards a corner as he called out: "Mors Mortis Minor Imago!"

Faith flinched as a masked wizard appeared in the corner where Connor had pointed, and she was about to turn angrily to her host when Connor stepped in front of her and pointed his wand at the intruder as he called out: "Stupefy!"

The Death Eater was struck squarely by the stunner and hurtled back into the wall with a loud thump. Faith watched as the dark wizard slumped to the ground, unconscious, then turned to Connor and snapped: "What in the hell was that?"

"That is the invention of a very, very brilliant friend of mine: a spell that creates solid images of opponents to fight that behave as the real ones do, at least to the extent that the caster knows how the real version fights." Harry had expected the startled reaction from the Slayer, and had his explanation ready. Faith nodded and visibly calmed down, and Harry continued, "This is the image of a minor Death Eater: he knows the spells that any NEWT level graduate of Hogwarts would, and can cast the Cruciatus Curse as well. . .or at least a good facsimile of it. This spell is designed for training, so spells that hit sting, but don't do any lasting damage. You'll know what he's casting, though—and suffice it to say that if you get hit by the Pain Curse, you'll know that you've messed up and would have been in a bad way in a real fight."

Faith frowned: "So—if you put more juice into the spell, the attacks would be nastier?"

"Up to a point." Harry frowned, not sure if he liked where this conversation was going. "The spell is meant to be self-sustaining: that limits the amount of power it can put out without depleting itself into non-existence. The attacks could be made stronger—and they are when I cast the version that creates an image of one of Voldemort's lieutenants—but they would still be weaker than the original. On the other hand, the images are as resilient as the original—meaning that you will have a good idea of what it takes to put a Death Eater down."

"Suppose you used it to create an image of me—how well would it fight?" Faith looked fascinated.

"I haven't seen all of your moves yet, so it wouldn't be as effective—and the image's strength would be greatly lessened: it would be only about twice as strong as a normal woman your size, I would guess." Faith nodded, and Harry continued, "But it would be as fast as you and as tough—it would take quite a bit of force to put it down. If it was after me, I'd try to keep distance and hit it with stunning or cutting curses—if it laid hands on me I'd be in bad shape."

Faith nodded, and her expression was unreadable as she asked: "Could you make an image of Voldemort with the spell?"

Harry blinked once, and it took all of the composure he had to look at Faith with a neutral expression as he replied, "I haven't seen him fight enough to make a convincing copy, and obviously the spell doesn't have the power to simulate his attacks with any kind of accuracy. The best I could do is probably adapt the spell slightly to create a static image that would be accurate in appearance, but did nothing else."

"Could you do it? I'd like to see the bastard who's trying to turn me into a slave or spare parts." Faith saw Connor flinch, and realized that she had walked into a sensitive area. "Look, if it bothers you I under—"

"Statua Voldemort Imago!" Connor shouted, and Faith blinked at the audible anger in his voice before turning to the image that had appeared ten feet away from them. She saw a tall man in robes whose face was distorted enough that it bore very little resemblance to humanity—the red, slitted eyes and flat nose screamed "snake" to her, and even in its still state Faith could almost feel the hate and malice coming from the figure. She walked forward and circled the image slowly, and she pictured the Dark Wizard moving lazily, tossing curses as she dodged for her life. She shivered a bit, then turned back to Connor—who was staring at the image with open hatred in his eyes. Faith found herself feeling concerned--she had seen many evil monsters during her time in Sunnydale, but that look of hate in the eyes of the brave and polite wizard who had rescued her seemed wrong, somehow: "Connor—I've seen enough: you can make it go away now." The wizard kept staring, and Faith raised her voice: "C—get rid of that thing!"

Connor blinked, then muttered "Finite Incantatem." Voldemort's image vanished, and Connor turned away, whispering, "I'm sorry—I shouldn't have reacted that way—"

"My fault, C." Faith took Connor's arm and led him to a chair, where he visibly tried to calm himself. Faith watched him, and found herself saying: "My first Watcher was killed by a master vampire a few months after I became a Slayer. I gouged one of his eyes out, then I ran until I made it to Sunnydale. He came after me, and he cornered B and me. I wanted to run, but there was nowhere to go, and when I was cornered, the fear went away and there was nothing left but anger—and hate. B held him off long enough for me to stake him. . .and it was done." She felt Connor tense slightly under her hands, and she sighed and told him something that she had shared with no one else: "I still dream about him, though—and if I saw him in front of me I don't know how I'd react. . .anyway, I'm sorry—that bastard killed your parents: I shouldn't have made you show me his face just because I was wondering."

Connor turned to Faith and quirked a smile. "We've all got our own monsters to deal with—I'm just going to have to do a better job of dealing with mine." Faith nodded, and Connor added, "Faith—I'm not going to pry, but anything you want to tell me about your time as a Slayer. . .I'm a friendly ear, and nothing will leave this house unless you tell me it's all right."

Faith looked at Connor quietly for a long moment, and she shrugged before replying, "Hey—a girl can't spend all of her time reading and training. A story or two might pass the time." She stood up and changed subjects abruptly: "OK, we've got the plans down—now how about you start showing me some of those spells."

* * *

Harry stirred from his momentary reverie, and noticed that Faith was waiting for him to continue. She had absorbed his spell lessons with ferocious interest, and her only disappointment had been when he had declined to allow her to borrow his wand to try some of them, as he had explained: "From what I've read, you'd probably blow my wand to pieces trying to use it—and I like my wand." He had smiled at the obvious pout on Faith's features, and amended, "There are some rather talented wandmakers in New York City—we'll plan a shopping trip in a couple of weeks and have a custom wand made for you that won't blow up when you try to use it." 

The history aspect of Faith's education had been more problematic. He would come back from his daily investigations—which, sadly, were bearing little fruit in recent days—and find that books and papers were scattered about, making it clear that she had been reading them, but she never seemed to have any questions about what she had read, preferring to go straight on to the training sessions after they ate. She trained ferociously, demonstrating combat techniques against the images that Harry created for her that he never would have even imagined, much less attempted. During their breaks, she told him of the monsters she had fought, and of some of the people she had known during her time as a Slayer. Harry quickly realized that Faith had been more or less an outsider to Buffy Summers and her friends, but it was still evident that the Sunnydale Slayer had a close circle of allies that was completely different from what he had learned at Hogwarts and from various other books about the Slayer as being typical for the warriors of Light. Her description of a ritual called the Cruciamentum—Faith's often casual pronunciation of words did not come into play as she spat the word out contemptuously and without hesitation—caused his jaw to set and provoked an approving smile from Faith at the reaction. He was comforted somewhat by Remus' comment that Rupert Giles seemed to be on the outs with the Council—with Faith's own version of the story suggesting that it was the Cruciamentum that caused the break—but he would have something to say if he ever found himself face-to-face with a leader of the Council.

Their working relationship became smoother over the days, and Harry was adjusting to another problem that he had not encountered before—he had never spent this much time alone with a girl. . .no, a woman his own age, without others to act as buffers. The training sessions required them to be in relatively close contact for substantial periods of time, and—other than occasional hugs from Hermione or one of the Weasleys—he wasn't used to that, other than the relatively short period of lengthy snogging sessions with Ginny that he had been carefully putting out of his mind for months now, and which weren't much help in trying to interact with a Slayer in any event. Faith wasn't particularly touchy-feely either, which helped his comfort level somewhat, and the fact that he looked older allowed him to try to keep some distance between them without looking particularly rude or odd.

After a week, Harry had shown Faith almost all of the curses and hexes that Death Eaters could be expected to throw at her, and was preparing a lesson plan to demonstrate the Unforgivables using the Imago spell as the hapless subjects for the deadly curses. He arrived back at the end of his investigations for the day to find Faith in a thoughtful mood. They had eaten in silence, and they were walking in the direction of the training room when Faith turned abruptly and walked into the library. Harry followed—only to find that Faith had several newspapers open, and had obtained several new books from the shelves that he had not selected. He walked close enough to note the titles, and he paled slightly. He was not surprised by Faith's question—which she delivered with a completely guileless expression:

"C—what's the deal with this Harry Potter kid?"

. . .to be continued

Author's Note: As always, it can get a bit perplexing when a character is under an assumed name, and interacting with someone who doesn't know it (or at least what the character's real name is). Basically, the convention I'm trying to use is that when the sentence in question involves Faith perceiving something regarding Harry, he is referred to as Connor. Also, since their discussion of their future plans involves "Faith doing things with 'Connor,'" I also refer to him as Connor in those sections.

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	8. Chapter 7

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART SEVEN

"C—what's the deal with this Harry Potter kid?"

Faith carefully kept her expression neutral as she waited for Connor to answer. Though it was her Slayer intuition that was her primary asset in making piles of money at poker tables, she had also been working on both her mundane observational skills and her ability to hide her emotions. As helpful as Connor had been, he was obviously hiding a big secret, and she had a strong suspicion that the question she had just asked would rattle at least part of it loose.

Connor raised an eyebrow and commented, "I knew I shouldn't have included the _Daily Prophet_ in those papers I gave you—it's nothing but a bloody scandal sheet these days."

Faith snorted. "Yeah—but it's not the only place I've seen his name. Harry Potter is mentioned in all of the papers you gave me, plus the name pops up in a lot of the recent history books—kind of hard to figure out what exactly the deal is, though. As near as I can figure, they call him 'The Boy Who Lived' and he did something to someone—I'm guessing it's that Voldemort guy unless you guys have two all-powerful evil wizards wandering around--whose name they can't print—they keep calling him 'You-Know-Who' and stupid crap like that." Connor smiled slightly, and Faith wondered why it had been that last part that pleased him. She dismissed the thought and asked again, "So—who is Harry Potter and why are your people acting like he's a rock star?"

Connor seemed to be lost in thought for a moment, and Faith was about to prod him again when he gestured for her to follow him. She obeyed, and they went down to the training room, where Connor motioned for her to sit after conjuring a comfortable chair for her. Reluctantly, she sat down, keeping her eyes on him. She noted that he seemed calm, as if he had been expecting this question, though perhaps not exactly when she sprung it on him. After a few moments, he said: "The rock star comparison is actually a good one, Faith. I know a little about American muggle culture—I know he was from before our time, but you know who Elvis Presley is, right?"

"Sure—everyone knows about the King." Faith was surprised by the turn of conversation, but adjusted quickly. "Man had a nice voice, and he was hot when he was young. Shame he let himself go the way he did."

Connor nodded in agreement, then continued: "Elvis Presley was—and is—a legendary figure in Muggle America. You could go to history books and see a lot of things that he actually did and said that are well-documented. However, there are also a lot of things that some people _believe _about him that almost certainly are _not_ true. Finally, there are some things that people believe about him that may or may not be true—the evidence is murky and with him being dead, the true story may never be known." Faith blinked in confusion, and Connor smiled and elaborated, "Harry Potter is as famous in the Wizarding World as Elvis Presley is in Muggle America, and similar confusion exists about what is true and what isn't about him. I can tell you what is known for certain about him, and also what the British Ministry of Magic believes to be true to the best of its knowledge. . .but to get the whole story you'd probably have to talk to Harry himself, and—unless I miss my guess—even he may not know all of the details."

Faith thought about that for a moment, then nodded. "All right—tell me what you know."

Connor gestured with his wand, summoning another comfortable chair for himself, and cool drinks for both of them. Faith raised an eyebrow, and Connor sat down and smiled apologetically as he explained, "This story will take a while." Faith took a sip from her drink and inclined her head in agreement, and Connor began: "Probably the best place to start the story is with a very basic point that an old friend told me long ago—not all wizards are good."

Faith's expression went solemn—she had certainly had proof of that in the past couple of weeks. Connor noted the reaction, then continued, "Dark Wizards have risen from time to time over the history of the Wizarding World, and have had to be stopped by other wizards and witches. Their surface motivations have varied, but their basic purpose has always been the same—power. In recent years, Dark Wizards have tended to be more ambitious and dangerous when they rose—the Dark Wizard Grindlewald was an ally of the German Third Reich and intended to rule both worlds once resistance was crushed. He was defeated by a great wizard named Albus Dumbledore in 1945." Faith recognized the name and started to interrupt, but Connor raised his hand and added, "Yes—I'll be talking about him more later." Faith closed her mouth, and Connor continued, "While this threat to the Wizarding World was being dealt with, a young wizard was completing his education at Hogwarts: he was a brilliant student, with a wide circle of friends—no, admirers would be a better word than friends--who was Head Boy at the school during his last year there. His name was Tom Riddle, and he was the son of a witch from a pureblood family and a muggle. His father had abandoned his mother before he was born, and she died in childbirth—leaving him to be brought up in a muggle orphanage until he was discovered at age eleven and enrolled in Hogwarts. While he thrived there, he had to go back to the orphanage during summers. By the time he left Hogwarts, he was a committed hater of muggles and muggleborn wizards and witches—and he had a wide circle of acquaintances who thought as he did. He set forth to gain power, and he took a new name—allowing him to abandon the name of his hated muggle father and to give him a title of sorts." Connor waved his wand, creating glowing letters in mid-air that read "Tom Marvolo Riddle." He was about to gesture at the words when Faith stood up and stared. Connor blinked and asked, "Are you all right?"

Faith shook her head with a disbelieving expression. "I'm filling in the gaps, and I think I know where you're going. You're telling me that the name that has your people wetting their pants in fear at the sound of it—the one they can't even bring themselves to print while he's trying to kill them—is a stupid word puzzle invented by a teenager?"

Connor smiled again, and waved his wand, causing the letters to re-arrange to read "I am Lord Voldemort." He looked over at Faith with an approving expression and replied, "Exactly." Faith sat down, looking disgusted, and Connor continued, "After a couple of decades, he had learned many dark arts and used them to increase his power and physical resistances, and he was ready to start seeking real power. He gathered his followers to him and named them Death Eaters, and he and they started a campaign of terror, killing wizards and muggles in the name of pureblood supremacy."

Faith snorted. "The half-blood started a bloodbath in the name of racial purity? He's really got the Hitler act going for him, doesn't he?" Connor blinked in surprise, and Faith assumed an offended expression as she muttered, "Hey—just because I'm not a book geek doesn't mean I haven't learned any history."

Connor made a conciliatory gesture, and Faith relaxed, motioning for him to go on. The wizard inclined his head to the Slayer, then continued: "By the late 1970's, the casualties were grim—Voldemort had many followers, and he himself would go on many raids. There were few who could stand against him. One group that tried was a small alliance of dedicated wizards and witches who secretly put their lives on the line to oppose the Death Eaters and Voldemort himself. While the exact membership of the group has never been revealed, it is widely believed that it was led by Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore—and that it was known as the Order of the Phoenix."

"That Dumbledore guy got around," Faith commented.

A flash of pain crossed Connor's face, and Faith watched in concern as he took a moment to compose himself before he whispered, "Yeah—he did." He took a deep breath and continued, "The news reports of the time suggest that the Order did reasonably well in fighting Voldemort, though it was greatly outnumbered and suffered painful casualties. Two known members of the Order who were particularly successful in fighting the Death Eaters and escaping with their lives were a couple of recent Hogwarts graduates who married, as is common in our world, soon after leaving school: James Potter and Lily Evans Potter. In spite of their difficulties, they managed to find time to have a son: Harry James Potter was born on July 31st, 1982."

"And so enters the hero of the story." Faith's comment was delivered in a calm, level tone.

Connor nodded, and his expression twisted as he went on: "Professor Dumbledore received word that Voldemort was specifically targeting the Potters for death, and urged them to go into hiding. They did so, using the same charm that protects the house we are sitting in: it hides the location from view except from anyone who is told the secret of the spell by the person chosen by the caster as the Secret Keeper. The Potters should have been safe indefinitely, as they chose one of their best friends to be the Secret Keeper."

"So, what happened—did Voldemort capture the Secret Keeper and torture the info out of him?" Faith asked, coming to the most reasonable conclusion. Connor's eyes flashed angrily, and Faith filed that reaction away for future consideration before she realized what had happened: "Oh no."

Connor turned away, and Faith had to strain to hear the whisper: "The friend turned traitor and revealed the location of the Potters to Voldemort, who went to the Potters' home alone and forced his way in on Halloween night in 1983. There were no living witnesses to all that happened next: it is known that James Potter and Lily Evans Potter were murdered by Avada Kedavra—the Killing Curse. It is also known that Voldemort directed the same curse at young Harry Potter—a curse which no human being had ever survived. . .until that moment."

Faith stared in fascination, and Connor paused for a long moment before continuing, "The curse struck Harry—leaving a distinctive lightning-shaped scar on his forehead—and rebounded, striking Voldemort and apparently killing him with explosive force. His body was discovered in the ruins of the Potter home along with those of the Potters by the Aurors who came to investigate the scene, but Harry was not there. He had been spirited away by order of Professor Dumbledore—who revealed to the Wizarding World that Voldemort was dead and what had caused it, but did not reveal Harry's location. The Wizarding World celebrated for weeks, praising the name of a one-year old most had never seen, and whose whereabouts were the most widely discussed mystery around for the next decade."

Faith's eyes involuntarily went to Connor's forehead: his dark hair was combed back, making it obvious that he had no scar. Connor seemed to note the scrutiny, and Faith shrugged casually before asking, "So where was he?"

"The Potter family had died out from various causes over the years—James Potter had no living blood relatives other than Harry when he died. Lily Evans Potter had only two other living relatives at the time of her death—her sister Petunia Dursley and her son Dudley, both muggles. Professor Dumbledore had decided that Harry needed to be protected by strong magical wards that could only be maintained by a blood relationship—so he left Harry on the Dursleys' doorstep with a note explaining what had happened." Connor frowned, then looked away from Faith as he continued, "The details of the next ten years are not known in detail by the Ministry—but it is known that the Dursleys hated and feared magic and all things related to it, and that Harry was given little in care or attention over that time. He grew up ignorant of his heritage and of his parents' true fate—until he turned eleven and a messenger informed him that he was a wizard and would be attending Hogwarts."

Faith repressed a snarl and took a few seconds to compose herself before snapping: "They sure don't make it easy on Chosen Ones, do they?" She noted the bone-deep shock in Connor's eyes at her comment before adding the reaction to her list and saying: "So—the kid caught a break: how did he do at Wizard High?"

"Harry was, understandably, rather thrilled to discover that he had a future that went beyond being treated contemptuously by his relatives, and took to life at Hogwarts with enthusiasm." Connor had apparently dismissed whatever had been bothering him, and his tone had returned to one of familiar narrative: "He was sorted into Gryffindor House—as had his parents before him—and he met two dear friends there who have stood by his side ever since. While he was not one of the best students among the new arrivals at Hogwarts, he eagerly learned all that was presented to him and tried to understand the world he found himself in, only to find that it—like his existence with his hateful relatives—was filled with hidden dangers. The spirit of Voldemort had survived the death of his body, and it had managed to find a host in the body of a Hogwarts professor, which he used to try to seize a powerful magical artifact that would have allowed him to regain full corporeal life again, with immortality as a bonus. He manipulated events with characteristic cunning, and only a completely unforeseeable obstacle stood in the way of complete success."

It took only a moment before Faith made the less-than-obvious conclusion: "The Potter kid again?"

"With the help of his friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." Connor spoke in a matter-of-fact tone that suggested he was discussing the weather or a sandwich. "Harry suspected a particular Professor of trying to kill him—there was strong circumstantial evidence to suggest he was correct. The artifact was hidden behind layers of magical defenses, which Harry bypassed thanks to his friends risking their lives to accompany him and brave the traps and puzzles designed to stop full-grown wizards and witches. He reached the room where the artifact was kept—only to find that his suspicions had been misdirected and that the murderer of his parents stood before him. Through circumstances that the Ministry has been unable to discover, Harry managed to overcome the possessed Professor, preventing Voldemort from getting the Stone and thereby regaining his body."

Faith whistled. "And no one knows how Harry pulled it off?"

"Well, Harry knows—his friends certainly know. Professor Dumbledore knew—and it's safe to say that the Order of the Phoenix knows the real story, but the Ministry doesn't know. Obviously, there was some powerful magic that protected Harry from Voldemort as a baby—it's a good bet that magic lingered still when Harry ran into that professor." Connor looked subdued as he looked over at Faith—who was watching him closely. He shrugged and continued, "After going home for the summer, Harry went back to Hogwarts for his second year hoping that his troubles were behind him, but no such luck. A monster which had been lurking at the roots of Hogwarts since the time of the Founders was loose in the school, and circumstances caused many of his classmates to believe he was behind the harm coming to the occupants of the school. After one of his friends was hospitalized by the beast and another friend abducted, he felt the need to act—and found himself face to face with the preserved memory of Voldemort and a fifty-foot long snake that could kill anyone that met its gaze. With the assistance of Professor Dumbledore's phoenix and a sword once owned by Godric Gryffindor himself, he defeated the snake and destroyed the diary that kept the memory of Voldemort intact, destroying it and saving his friend."

"The other kids must have felt pretty stupid about accusing him after that." Faith commented—only to be surprised by the flicker of regret that crossed Connor's face at her words. She blinked, and asked, "They **–**did- tell everyone that Harry was innocent and that he was a hero, right?"

"Word got out that Harry wasn't the Heir of Slytherin, but the details were rather murky. The students stopped being afraid of him for the most part, but they still didn't know the whole story. . .which is not strange, since the Ministry didn't know it either." Connor's voice and expression were sad, and he visibly shook off the melancholy before turning away from Faith and commenting, "Now—surely there is something else you'd be more interested in hearing about, Faith."

"More interesting than someone who seems to have thousands of people who can do magic talking about him before he's old enough to be out of school? Yeah, right—keep talking, Special Operative man." Faith stared at Connor with ferocious intensity and added, "If I'm going to understand what the deal is with your world, I need to know what makes it tick—and that seems to be this Voldemort guy and the Potter kid. I've pretty much figured out what Voldemort's about—I still don't get Harry Potter. You're the one who can tell me about him. If you don't tell me, I'll just have to learn it on the street corner, like I did with sex and drugs."

Connor flushed slightly, then raised an eyebrow as he smirked and replied, "Well, we certainly can't have _that_, can we?" Faith smirked at him, and he sighed once before starting on his narrative again, this time without further hesitation.

Connor spoke for another hour, and Faith was at the edge of her seat the whole time, never uttering a sound as she listened to the older man spin a tale that rivaled anything that either she or Buffy had experienced. A godfather who Harry thought to be a murderous traitor—only to turn out to be a gravely wronged, much-beloved bridge to what had been taken from Harry at a young age. A mysterious sequence of events that plunged Harry into a competition meant for far more experienced wizards—where he performed admirably—only to have the whole thing be a horrible trap meant to provide Voldemort a means of returning to life. A year where he was treated as a delusional child for his completely honest warnings of the return of Voldemort, and left virtually at the mercy of a sadistic monster with the backing of the Ministry of Magic—a year which ended with another confrontation with Voldemort and the tragic death of his godfather, who had only so recently been reunited with Harry. And this last year. . .for Harry to have known to the core of his being that something was _wrong_, only to be ignored by his mentor Dumbledore until it was too late. . .and to have seen Dumbledore slain by someone the great wizard had trusted, with Harry's attempts to avenge that treachery being in vain. Connor's eyes glistened as he reached this final part of the story, and Faith realized that Dumbledore had to have been someone very important to Connor—perhaps even as a mentor in the way that he had been for Harry.

Connor fell silent, having reached the end of his narrative: he looked drained. Faith was about to say something comforting—something that didn't come easy for her—when she reviewed the last few moments of Connor's story in her mind and abruptly scowled. The wizard saw the reaction and asked quietly, "What's wrong, Faith?"

"It sounds like that Ministry you work for has been a close second behind Voldemort as far as making Harry's life suck goes since he found out he was a wizard." Faith's tone was blunt, though the look she was directing at Connor was confused rather than angry. "So how come you're singing his praises to me?"

"A fair question." Connor met Faith's gaze with a renewed serenity, and he elaborated, "Firstly, I only recently started working as a Special Operative—before that, I was doing other things, and I was in contact with many of Harry's friends and acquaintances. As a result, I knew that Harry wasn't prone to making things up to draw attention to himself, and I had heard and believed in the warning signs that Voldemort was coming back. Second, the Minister of Magic recently met with Harry, and they came to some sort of arrangement—though the Minister has never spoken to anyone else about precisely what was involved. He did, however, authorize me to do whatever I can to assist Harry in his endeavors, and that has sent me all over the Wizarding World in search of various types of information."

"What sort of information?" Faith had relaxed inwardly at Connor's explanation, and her curiosity had come back to the forefront. "What does Harry need to know about?"

Connor raised an eyebrow. "That, Faith, is a state secret, and one which I am sworn not to reveal—even to a Slayer." Faith pouted slightly and Connor chuckled, "Harry is at school, and hopefully this year will be a less adventurous one for him and his friends. Don't worry about him—he has a lot of people looking out for him now. Now—if we've finished discussing celebrities, I'd like to discuss some of the errands we're going to run when we make our trip next week to New York."

Faith frowned again, then nodded slowly and listened as Connor started describing shops to be found on Long Way. _He's mostly being straight with me, but he's hiding something—something he's not telling me about Harry Potter. I'll just have to figure out what it is_ She dismissed the thought and continued to listen as Connor planned the expedition.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.

6


	9. Chapter 8

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART EIGHT

"Are you ready to go, Faith?" Harry called through the closed door, glancing at the clock behind him in the hall. "New York is three time zones ahead of us, even in the Wizarding World. We need to get moving if—" The door opened, and Harry's jaw dropped for a moment before he recovered and finished more or less smoothly: "—we're going to get all of our shopping in."

Faith had given Connor the address and keys to her apartment—after he had warned her that Voldemort might be using detection magic to track her in the area where she had been spotted—and asked him to retrieve a few items. He recognized one of them as the black dress that Faith was wearing, and it took considerable discipline for him to keep his eyes focused on Faith's visibly amused face as he commented, "You know—we're going to be wearing robes for most of the time we're out."

Faith shrugged. "What the hell—might as well look good for the times I'm not. It's not like you're in a T-shirt and shorts, C." She nodded at the suit and tie that Connor was wearing, then added, "I'm ready—let's motor."

Harry nodded and led her to the fireplace, where he carefully handed an urn to Faith and had her take out a pinch of Floo powder after he had done so. He turned to her and commented, "Mind your pronunciation—saying the wrong place can end up causing you some knotty problems." He replaced the urn, threw the powder in the fireplace, and shouted: "New York Central Floo!" The fire flared green, and he jumped in and vanished. After taking a deep breath, Faith tossed her own powder and repeated the location without hesitation before jumping in herself.

Faith rolled out of the fireplace and immediately bounced to her feet. She noted the fireplace soot on her arms and was about to express annoyance at the indignity when a wand flicked in her direction and she heard the word "Scourgify." The soot vanished, and Faith relaxed as she saw Connor showing his signet ring to what looked like a Wizarding official. The other wizard inclined his head at Faith, and Connor said quietly, "She's under my protection. Article Seven, Paragraph Three of the International Diplomatic Code."

The older wizard seemed to sneer slightly, but he nodded and opened a door that appeared to be some distance from the main entrance to the room—which was rather large and starting to fill up with people who had popped through the Floo after Faith's arrival. Connor nodded and gestured to Faith, who followed him through the door.

They entered a lengthy, dimly lit corridor that looked more or less modern to Faith, and they walked for about three minutes before reaching an ordinary looking door at the end of the corridor. Connor paused and flicked his wand twice, causing robes to appear over their outer clothing. Faith blinked in surprise, and Connor nodded in satisfaction: "Switching spells are very useful—I'll show them to you when we're done and you have your wand."

Faith nodded absently, then watched as Connor reached out and touched the door in three different places—none of them near the doorknob. There was a click, and the door silently swung open, revealing an alley. Connor stepped through and briskly walked down the alley, with Faith behind him. The Slayer looked around and commented, "Looks kind of new, considering the old stuff that you guys like—"

Faith's jaw dropped as she walked out onto the sidewalk and saw. . .a street scene that could have come from any Hollywood movie set in New York City. Crowds of people in ordinary clothing walking by, talking—and occasionally shouting—to each other, and apparently paying absolutely no attention to the two robed people standing at the entrance to the alley. The buildings looked familiar to her, and her eyes fell on a street sign a dozen yards away: it was the corner of East 79th St. and Lexington Avenue. She turned back to Connor and had to force herself to whisper: "Wizard Central Station is right in the middle of the Upper East Side?"

Connor smiled and replied, "You don't need to whisper. This whole area is covered with muggle-affecting charms that cause them to ignore anything a wizard or witch is saying and to see them wearing whatever is on under their robes—unless they do something drastic to attract attention or wear something odd or nothing at all under their robes, we can discuss anything we want and not be noticed." Faith nodded, though she still looked dubious, and Connor continued, "The Central Floo here has been at that location for over a hundred years—the charms on it are strong enough that no one comes looking to buy out the owners or otherwise cause problems, just as no Muggle real estate moguls have been trying to buy the building that the British Ministry of Magic is in."

"Sounds like a good deal," Faith said, shaking her head at how the people around them were ignoring them. She turned back to Connor and asked, "OK, where to now? Is the Wizard Mall in one of these fancy buildings?"

Connor shook his head and led her down East 79th Street, heading west. They crossed Lexington, and a few moments later they reached Park Avenue, and Faith could not resist the temptation to stare a little. _Never thought I'd see this in person_ She looked further to the west and saw a large expanse of green. She turned back to Connor: "Central Park, right?"

Connor nodded, and they continued on, crossing Park Avenue, then Madison Avenue soon after. As they reached 5th Avenue and the edge of the park, Faith could see the Metropolitan Museum of Art looming off to the north along the eastern edge of the park, and noticed that Connor was leading them in that direction as they stepped off of the crosswalk. She raised an eyebrow and asked, "It's not in the museum, is it?"

Connor chuckled, then led her into the park and down a walkway before stopping in front of a small group of trees, which was near several groups out for a picnic on what was a very nice day in late fall. He inclined his head at the trees and asked, "Notice anything odd about that area?"

Faith looked over at the trees for a moment, and didn't see anything amiss at first. She was about to question Connor when she saw a couple of kids playing Frisbee nearby. One of the kids tossed the Frisbee over the other kid's head and it headed straight for the trees, only to stop dead and fall to the ground for no apparent reason. The kid who had missed the catch ran over and picked up the Frisbee and returned to the game—apparently not having noticed that anything odd had just taken place. Faith turned to Connor and asked, "More anti-Muggle magic?"

"Yes—there's a barrier around those trees that keeps Muggles or other mundane objects out of that area: they can see the trees, but if they get too close they'll be stopped by the barrier and turn around and never think about why they're doing so. The only way for a Muggle to get in there is if a wizard or witch leads them in—your level of intrinsic power would probably let you through the barrier alone, but you'd need a wand for the final entrance." Connor led Faith into the grove of trees and into a small inner clearing where a single oak tree stood. He pulled out his wand and tapped a large knot on the trunk three times as he whispered, "Let those who would do business with honorable intentions be admitted to this place."

The knot glowed, and Connor turned to Faith. "Take my hand."

Faith would have ordinarily cracked a joke at such an earnest request, but she saw the look of protectiveness in his eyes, and she felt a tingle of warmth down her spine. _This guy has a streak of momma bear in him that would make Buffy's mom jealous_ She reached out without hesitation and clasped hands with Connor—who moved their hands into contact with the knot. Faith felt a tugging sensation behind her navel, then was overwhelmed by a brief sense of rapid motion, which ended as she and Connor dropped onto a soft surface that was cushioned enough to avoid the usual discomfort involved in landing on one's posterior. Faith's inborn reflexes kicked in, and she instantly sprang to her feet and looked around for threats for a moment before she relaxed enough to take in the sights of their new location. She turned to Connor—who had also managed to get to his feet—and commented, "I've read up on some of the other major places you wizards have built in big cities all over the world—this one isn't like any of those."

They were standing on a small grassy area, looking out onto what looked like a small town from a movie or television show filmed in the 1950's. There were a substantial number of men and women walking around—some wore traditional robes, but others were wearing normal Muggle clothing, and neither group seemed to find the dress of the other odd. There were no buildings taller than three stories, and there were no visible vehicles of any kind on the streets. Connor took Faith's arm and led her out onto the nearby sidewalk, just as two robed wizards popped into appearance where they had just been standing, then turned to her and said, "Let's go—we have a number of stops to make."

Faith nodded, and they walked down the street, with Connor nodding occasionally to acknowledge the people passing them. Faith looked up and saw that the overhead view looked like an overcast day, with no blue sky or sun visible. She frowned and commented, "There wasn't a cloud in the sky when we were in New York City—how far did we travel just now?"

"About two thousand feet—straight down." Connor's answer made Faith blink, and the wizard hastened to explain: "The first wizards to arrive on the North American continent from Europe looked for a place to stay separate from the Muggles and located a large cave beneath Manhattan. By Apparating and using other spells to change the environment there, they created a place where wizards and witches could conduct commerce without attracting unwanted attention. Muggle technology has improved enough where some new spells have been needed to keep this place hidden, but it has remained a safe place for the most part."

Faith looked around and replied, "Yeah—this place is nice, though it seems a little small for all of the people who must come here to shop."

Connor smiled and stopped at a shop door, opening it so that Faith could look inside. She saw a huge sales area inside that would strain the confines of a Wal-Mart, and she stepped back and looked to confirm that the outside looked like a shop that would easily fit onto the floor of the Sunnydale High Library before it was blown to bits. She looked back at Connor, who let the door close and gestured for her to follow as he explained, "Room expanding spells—saves a lot of walking time and lets them use the space provided by the cave far more efficiently."

"I could have used one of those spells for the crappy motel room I had in Sunnydale," Faith commented as she followed Connor. Connor frowned in concern at the reference, but Faith dropped the matter and asked, "So—what's our first stop?"

Connor pointed at a two-story building at the corner of the street they were on and replied, "Gringotts, New York branch. We need to set you up with a bank account so that you can buy things you need without attracting attention by using Muggle currency. I'll transfer from funds to my personal accounts to get you started." Faith opened her mouth to protest, but the wizard cut her off before she could speak. "Faith, I know you've got money in your apartment—you asked me to check on it and I cast some spells to keep people from messing with it while you're gone, remember? It's just a loan."

Faith frowned, then nodded, mollified at the response. Connor smiled and pulled out his wand and pointed it at himself, muttering a phrase under his breath that caused the wand to shimmer briefly before he put it away. The Slayer raised an eyebrow and asked, "What's with the hocus-pocus?"

"The goblins are honest, but they're ruthless businesspeople and will take any advantage they can when dealing with their customers—that spell gives me the ability to do lightning fast calculations in my head, so I can make sure that we're getting a fair deal based on the information we're hearing." Connor's tone was matter-of-fact, and Faith frowned again briefly before Connor blinked and added, "Now, remember—goblins are not demons and should not be considered as a threat—unless you try to steal from them, in which case you'd have been better off making demons angry with you. Just be polite to them and you'll be fine."

Faith rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah—I did do that reading you wanted me to, you know. I promise not to Slay any goblins." She looked at the wizard for a moment and gave him an appraising look before adding, "Besides. . .I'm not sure you're up to handling me after Slayage."

Connor flushed slightly before smirking and replying, "I'll keep that in mind. Come on, then—we can finish this part of the business relatively quickly." He walked up the steps and opened the door for Faith, then followed her in.

Faith looked up and saw a towering domed ceiling that topped out at least fifty feet over her head, and a huge room ringed with counters manned by goblins who were busily transacting business with wizards and witches. Connor stepped to her side and pointed to a sign at the far end of the room reading "New Accounts." The Slayer nodded and they walked towards an imposing desk with a goblin sitting behind it.

As they walked across the center of the room—crossing an elaborate symbol on the floor that Faith recognized as the Gringotts crest from the front of the bank—a loud bell clanged five times, in a rhythm that struck both Faith and Connor as sounding rather martial. As one, every goblin in the room stopped what he was doing and looked directly at the two people who had paused atop the Gringotts crest. Faith turned to Connor and asked pointedly, "So were we not supposed to walk on that thing? Kind of stupid to put it on the floor if we weren't."

Connor shook his head. "I've walked over that crest many times and nothing happened." A door opened, and a goblin stepped out and headed for them with noticeable haste. "Let me handle this." Faith nodded, and Connor turned to the goblin who had just reached them and greeted him: "Supervisor Racksack, it is good to see you again—what is all of the commotion about?"

The goblin inclined his head to Connor in a way that Faith would have taken as borderline rude if a human had done it, then replied, "The branch manager would like to have a word with the young lady, Special Operative Galleon. You may accompany her if she wishes it."

"Kind of a lot of fuss for someone coming in to open an account, isn't it?" Faith suspected something was up, but she decided to play dumb for a bit longer. "I don't see why a busy goblin like your branch manager would need to see me."

Racksack looked at Faith for a moment, then spoke quietly: "In every generation, there is a Chosen One—or, in this case, two Chosen Ones. The branch manager has some pressing business to discuss with you, Miss Lehane—and I assure you that he is not one to waste his time. Will you follow me, please?"

Faith was rocked back onto her heels by the casual reply, but she was silent as she followed the goblin towards the door after jerking her head at Connor to indicate he should come with her. After a moment of annoyance that the goblins apparently knew more about Faith than he did, Connor complied.

* * *

Racksack led them into a small but opulently furnished office and left them to wait in sinfully overstuffed visitor chairs. A house elf appeared and inquired if they needed any refreshments, and a few moments later Connor was sipping a pumpkin juice, while Faith had ordered a Screwdriver which she found to be excellent. Connor had given her an annoyed look when she ordered, but she had simply grinned wickedly at him and the wizard had decided not to press the issue. After a minute or so, Faith turned to Connor and commented, "That goblin was kind of rude to you."

Connor snorted. "Actually, that was a very polite greeting by goblin standards—but his reply to you was as if a human being had walked up to you and given you a big friendly hug. I don't know what's going on, but you're getting the VIP treatment."

"Indeed she is, Special Operative Galleon—and with good reason." The back entrance to the office had opened, and a very old goblin walked out. His face was heavily wrinkled and the few tufts of hair on his head were snow white, but he stood erect and his eyes gleamed with obvious intelligence. Behind his Connor mask, Harry was immediately reminded of Dumbledore, and he stood immediately and inclined his head respectfully—he was pleased when Faith did likewise, though she simply nodded to the goblin. The new arrival gestured for his visitors to sit, and after they had done so he settled into the massive armchair behind the oak desk and said, "I am Chairman Thrice-Gilded—manager of the New York branch of Gringotts. I am Chairman of Gringotts' North American Operations and Overseer of Currency Control for Gringotts' operations in the Western Hemisphere."

Faith saw Connor blink in surprise, and she decided to relieve a bit of tension in the room. "So—you're the goblin equivalent of Donald Trump and Alan Greenspan rolled up into one guy?"

Connor turned to Faith and was about to admonish her when he saw Thrice-Gilded start to shake, and the sound coming from him—though odd by human standards—was clearly laughter. After a moment, the ancient goblin inclined his head to Faith and replied, "Actually, given the power I wield Bill Gates would be a better analogy than Mr. Trump, but you are essentially correct. It's nice to know that young people—even ones with less than ideal educational backgrounds—take the time to know their world."

Faith shrugged. "I've had a lot of down time the last few months, and not had to worry about where my next meal or room was coming from. I used it." Thrice-Gilded nodded, and Faith asked, "OK—I'm sure that most people who come here to open accounts don't get this treatment: what's this all about? It's nice to meet you and all that, but I'd really like to know what's the what."

Thrice-Gilded smiled—a less than attractive expression on the ruined features—and replied, "I have a story to tell you, Miss Lehane—" He saw the scowl on Faith's face and interpreted it correctly before continuing, "—all right, Faith, then. It began just over three hundred and fifty years ago, in London, where Gringotts was still in the relatively early days of its existence. The wars between the goblins and the wizards were over, but the Wizarding community was still not completely comfortable with us, and there were still dark wizards who openly attacked us in defiance of the treaties. The Ministry of Magic did what it could to stop the attacks, but they could only be so many places at once and most wizards and witches who came upon a dark wizard attacking goblins would simply walk the other way. We fought back, but there were many deaths among our people—some whispered that we should break the treaties and go back to war with the Wizarding World. . .commerce with a community that hated us would lead to no good."

Thrice-Gilded paused and saw that both of his listeners were at the edge of their seats. Faith frowned and urged: "Well? Don't stop there."

The goblin nodded and continued, "One night, a large caravan of my people was traveling along an isolated section of Diagon Alley when they were attacked by a large force of dark wizards—who hoped to slay them and gain custody of a great treasure. The situation was grim—none of the bystanders would step in, and the goblins were outnumbered. If things had gone on without interference, it undoubtedly would have led to renewed war between my people and the Wizarding Community, one that might have ended with the complete extermination of goblins and grievous losses for the wizards. But just as the battle was reaching a fever pitch, someone stepped in to intervene."

"The Slayer." Faith didn't need supernaturally enhanced intuition to figure that out.

"Indeed it was." Faith could hear the smile in the goblin's voice as he continued, "She came from the shadows like a whirlwind, both hands wielding cold steel that she used to dire effect against the demons that the dark wizards had summoned. After a moment, the dark wizards recovered enough to attack back, but she used their numbers against them by moving in close and dodging attacks while cleaving their wands into useless kindling. In the meantime, a crossbowman on a nearby roof started dispatching demons and wizards with grim efficiency, and my people—heartened by the completely unexpected support—started fighting back more ferociously. The tide had turned. . .but the Slayer was still surrounded by enemies and was in great danger of dying, with none of her allies being in a position to rescue her. Suddenly, a new development that was crucial to the future of goblin/wizard relations occurred."

Connor blinked again—none of this sounded familiar to him. _Maybe I should have stayed awake in History of Magic after all _ He looked at Thrice-Gilded and asked quietly, "What happened, Chairman?"

"A young witch broke free from the crowd and turned on the others, and her words and tone were scornful: 'You cowards! Are you just going to stand there and let her die?' She pulled out her wand and charged at the enemy, curses flying from her lips and her wand. None there could say what it was that finally broke the stillness of that crowd, but after a few more seconds a hundred wands were directed at the dark wizards and their allies, and the hail of spells that came from them lit up Diagon Alley as if the sun had risen. The survivors fled, and the Slayer was left swaying on her feet as a middle-aged man who turned out to be her Watcher ran to her side. Fortunately, she was well enough to go home to rest, but as the authorities arrived and took the survivors off to be healed, the leader of the goblins approached the Watcher and addressed him: "When you two are well enough to travel, come to Gringotts. We have a debt to discuss."

"Wow—she stopped a war and inspired those people to get involved. Not a bad night's work for a Slayer." Faith shook her head in amazement at the story, then asked, "So—did they end up coming to Gringotts?"

"They did, two days later." Thrice-Gilded's tone softened, as if the subject was of personal importance to him. "They were both received with great honors, and led to the audience hall of the leader—we had not yet formalized our title system—where they were asked to sit and speak with the leader, who told them: "You have helped us more than any of your people have before—and inspired those who feared and hated us to fight to save us, even if they might not have chosen to do so otherwise. We are in your debt—what can the Goblins do for you?"

"The Slayer and the Watcher looked at each other, and the Slayer replied first, 'We would simply ask that you remain at peace with the Wizarding World and the rest of humanity, sir—we would not seek to impose on you otherwise. The wizards I attacked were necromancers and demon summoners, who I would have attacked even if your lives were not at stake.'"

"Our leader was surprised at the humility of the reply and responded, 'We wished for peace in any event, and would have sought it if possible even without your request. Surely there is something we could do to repay you personally—or perhaps we could provide something of value to your Council to—'"

"At this moment the Watcher interrupted: 'Forgive me, sir, but I am afraid that contacting our Council would not be a helpful exercise.' The goblin leader motioned for him to elaborate, and the Watcher continued, 'I am a rarity among the Watchers in that I am a trained wizard—the vast majority of the Council is made up of muggles who view magic with profound suspicion, though they by necessity must learn of it in the course of their education and their duties. It is for that reason that Miss Douglas and myself were in Diagon Alley at the crucial moment, where a more mundane Watcher and his charge would never have set foot there. The Council would be most displeased if they were to learn that I allowed the Slayer to risk her life in such a situation, and any contact from your community would undoubtedly be very. . .distasteful to them. I apologize if I have given offense by telling you this.'"

Faith scowled, and Connor shook his head sadly. Thrice-Gilded noted the reactions, then continued: "The goblin leader assured the Watcher that he was not offended, then added, 'You are an enlightened man, sir, and you are obviously teaching your charge to be so as well—perhaps there is something we can do to help with those efforts, to allow you and those who think like you to continue to influence Slayers to behave in a friendly manner towards non-hostile beings?' The Watcher considered the question, and as he did a young goblin stood up and stepped to the leader's side, whispering in his ear. After a moment, the leader nodded and addressed the Watcher again for several minutes. The Watcher considered the proposal, then nodded in agreement, and in two days the arrangements had been completed.'"

Thrice-Gilded paused again and took a long draft from the mug sitting on his desk—then began again without waiting to be prodded. "The young goblin's proposal was a simple one: Gringotts would open an account in the name of the Slayer, into which would be deposited five hundred Galleons from the personal wealth of the Watcher—which would be matched by five hundred Galleons from the goblins. The money would sit in the account—exempt from all account fees and collecting three percent quarterly compounded interest—until such time as the current Slayer—whoever she might be—came to claim part or all of it. The Watcher would not tell the Council of this, and would prepare a charmed letter that would inform the Watcher of the next Slayer of the arrangement, with the charm preventing him or her from revealing the secret to anyone but his Slayer. Thus, a source of useful funds would be maintained that would allow a Slayer to function independently from the Council—whether inside or outside the Wizarding World—and a reason for continued friendly contact between the Slayers and the goblin community would be established. The goblin leader also told the Watcher that the Slayer and her companions would always be able to receive sanctuary from the goblin community, so long as all involved would remain non-hostile to the goblins. All in all, a very mutually beneficial arrangement to both parties."

Faith considered what she had just heard, and grinned as she commented, "So—this is a whole long-running tradition between Slayers and goblins? That's kind of cool—and I don't even need to borrow money from Connor to start—" Thrice-Gilded shook his head, looking solemn, and Faith blinked as she asked: "What'd I miss—did some other Slayer blow all of the money on powdered wigs and silk undies?"

"Sadly, it was nothing so harmless, Faith. The account was funded and started—as it happens—precisely three hundred and fifty years ago today. Miss Douglas and her Watcher arrived, made the deposit and signed the paperwork, and departed to the cheers of my people. It was a proud day—and it was followed by months of mourning." Faith felt a stab of pain in the pit of her stomach, and the old goblin's next words came as no surprise: "That very night, Miss Douglas was mortally wounded in the course of Slaying a major demon, and her Watcher also died of his wounds. He never had the opportunity to pen the charmed letter, and the Council never learned of the arrangement with Gringotts: even if we had wanted to tell the Council, our agreement with Miss Douglas and her Watcher forbade it. Thus it was that the account has stayed continuously active at Gringotts for three hundred and fifty years, accumulating three percent quarterly compounded interest, and would have continued to do so had you not happened to come to this place, or another branch of Gringotts. As you are a Slayer, the funds are at your disposal to do with as you please, and we will be more than honored to assist you with that, as part of a debt now three hundred and fifty years old."

Faith blinked. "So, I'm not really up on Wizarding money, but a thousand galleons sounds like a lot, and you say it's been drawing interest, so there should be a little more there now—maybe this shopping trip won't break me after all. Do you know how much money is in that account now?"

Thrice-Gilded grinned wickedly and began to speak, but was interrupted by Connor—who spoke quickly and mechanically, though his eyes looked a bit dazed: "Thirty-four million, nine hundred and twenty thousand, two hundred and one Galleons, four Sickles, and twenty six Knuts."

Thrice-Gilded listened to the recital, and snickered before replying, "Special Operative Galleon—we are eternally grateful to the Slayers and will treat Faith—or Miss Buffy Summers should she visit us—with great honor. However, we are trying to run a business here—and as such we round _down_ to the nearest Knut. Twenty _five_ Knuts."

"My apologies, Mr. Chairman." Connor replied, noticing that Faith seemed to be in mild shock. He decided to ask an obvious question that Faith was probably about to broach herself: "Chairman, what's the current Galleons to dollars exchange rate?"

"The account—as per its terms—is exempt from our conversion fees, so the current rate is precisely thirteen dollars to the Galleon." Thrice-Gilded was amused at the young Slayer's reaction, and decided to use his own natural computational skills to lay out the situation for her. "Ignoring the small change, that would make the current dollar value of the account precisely four hundred and fifty three million, nine hundred and sixty two thousand, six hundred and thirteen dollars. You have complete discretion over that money—you can leave it where it lies to continue to collect interest, or transfer it all in the form of galleons, dollars, or any other currency you can name to a personal account, though any further money changing activity in that account will be subject to normal Gringotts fees, though I suspect you will deposit enough to receive our preferred rates. . .what do you wish to do, Faith?"

Faith closed her eyes for a moment, and Connor wondered if Faith was going to faint on them for a moment before her eyes snapped open and she asked a question: "Chairman—do you have owls on call here to send messages?" Thrice-Gilded nodded, and Faith turned to Connor and said quietly, "C—could you give us a few minutes? I have some business to discuss with the really powerful dude here."

Connor saw the goblin chuckle at Faith's irreverence, but also noted his pointed glance at the wizard, and he immediately inclined his head to Thrice-Gilded and departed the room. He paced restlessly for several minutes—causing nearby goblins to withdraw to some distance away—until the office door opened and Faith came out with a wicked grin on her face. She called out, "I've got a lot of papers to sign—the big guy wanted to talk to you while I do that."

Connor nodded—still somewhat taken aback by the revelations of the past hour—and Faith breezed by him towards a spot where two goblins were already waiting with uncharacteristically polite expressions on their faces. The wizard shook his head and turned back to where Thrice-Gilded was waiting with a patient expression. "You wanted to speak to me, Chairman?"

"I simply wanted to reassure you that you won't be hearing complaints about diplomatic gaffes related to this meeting, Special Operative—I know that your Ministry is particularly concerned about appearances. A remarkable young woman, and with surprisingly good instincts on how to deal with sudden good fortune and responsibility." The ancient goblin studied the young wizard and commented, "You seemed to find that story quite interesting—am I to understand that you hadn't heard it before?"

The Special Operative managed a shrug, but Harry was squirming inside as he replied, "I have to admit that I wasn't a top student in History of Magic, Chairman—but I'm fairly sure that the incident in question wasn't covered in depth in class, or I would have run into it while revising for my OWLs."

Thrice-Gilded snorted. "I'm not surprised—your people have many strengths, and we do good business together, but heaven forbid that they should properly document such an important historical event when—with one notable exception—their own role in it was as belated followers."

Connor winced slightly, but had to admit to himself that the criticism was a fair one. A thought occurred to him, and he asked quietly, "Do you happen to know the name of that witch who shamed the crowd into intervening?"

The goblin's dark eyes seemed to twinkle for a moment before he replied, "Indeed I do—she was a recent Hogwarts graduate who had just married into one of the most ancient and noble Wizarding families in England. Gail Potter went on to live a full and rewarding life, and died at a very old age surrounded by a loving family." Thrice-Gilded saw the wizard's eyes widen, and he smiled and nodded as he added, "I thought that would get your attention—you are a long way from where the Wizarding media says you should be, young man."

Harry took a step back in shock, and whispered: "How--?"

"We Goblins know better than most creatures on this Earth the importance of being able to see beneath surface appearances—it would be bad for business if we didn't." Thrice-Gilded straightened up and stared directly into Harry's eyes as he added, "Still—your disguise is quite good: I would guess that only three or four other goblins in the world could see through it and recognize you for who you are. . .and since all of them seek the permanent downfall of that maniac Voldemort and—as you have just learned—know of the debt that we owe your family, I believe you can rest easy if you are concerned by this. Also, my assistant will give you my personal contact cipher in case you wish to reach me by owl post. When the time comes, you may need our help."

"Thank you, Chairman." Somehow, the simple reply seemed the best. As they walked out to join Faith, Harry had one last thought: "Chairman—what happened to that young goblin who proposed the plan?"

Thrice-Gilded chuckled. "Though the plan seemed to be foiled at its inception, there was general agreement among the leadership that it had been of great merit and showed that the young goblin had potential. He rose quickly in the ranks in England before travelling to America to help found this place, and—after many years and bold moves that created three of the greatest fortunes ever to be credited to a goblin—he finds himself as an old, old creature, who has finally been privileged to see one of his early dreams come to realization." Harry remembered belatedly just how long goblins could live, and smiled as the ancient goblin concluded, "Not quite the most remarkable day out of the one hundred and fifty thousand I have seen, but it is certainly close." Thrice-Gilded inclined his head at Harry and pointed to the main hall: "Now, let us put aside these matters and help the young lady settle her financial situation."

Still somewhat bemused, Harry decided that the Chairman had an excellent plan, and he followed in silence.

Author's Note: I spent a little time researching the geography of that section of New York City—I trust that my readers will tell me if I have committed any significant errors in that area. Also, Harry's recital of the balance of the bank account to (almost) the last Knut was a tribute to the great scene from the Classic Trek episode "The Trouble With Tribbles," where Kirk was buried by an avalanche of tribbles and Spock—after hearing horrified estimates from the others as to how many tribbles were in the now-empty grain vault—instantly replied, "One million, seven hundred seventy one thousand, five hundred sixty one."

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	10. Interlude 2

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

INTERLUDE 2: OLD FRIENDS, A SAD REDHEAD, AND A VENGEFUL DARK LORD

Giles finished the entry in his journal and closed the volume, shaking his head in dismay at how badly things could have gone if Gachnar the fear demon had not been so diminutive. For all of her successes, Buffy could still be frighteningly impulsive at times, and it had been sheer luck that her decision to destroy the symbol had indeed turned out to be the most expeditious method of disposing of the problem. _Or not so lucky, perhaps: her instincts might well have led her to the solution. The Council should have undertaken practical testing of the intuitive abilities of Slayers long ago: perhaps I should broach the subject with Buffy—_

There was a knock at his door, and Giles raised an eyebrow_. It must be a salesman: no one I know here bothers to knock _He chuckled at his cynical reaction, then got up and walked to the door, opening it. He blinked in surprise and said quietly, "Good Lord."

"Not really—just an old friend who happened to be in town and heard you were living at this abode." Remus Lupin smiled at the surprised former Watcher and added, "From what I hear, invitations to enter in these parts can result in one becoming a hot supper, so I'll simply come in and let you eject me if the mood strikes you." Remus stepped across the threshold—causing Giles to relax subliminally—and turned back to face the older man as his smile widened and he added: "How in the hell are you, Rupert?"

Giles closed the door and replied, "'Hell' has pretty much been the word for it for the last three years, as I suspect you know if you knew to find me here and to not expect to be invited in." He reached out and firmly shook hands with the wizard before asking, "Now—what in the devil are you doing here, Remus? The Hellmouth is no place for someone who depends on Wizarding magic to defend himself."

Remus shuddered, then replied, "I know a few reliable tricks that should keep me safe—Professor Dumbledore didn't hire me as the Defense Against The Dark Arts professor four years back because of my dashing looks and history as a ruthless prankster, after all." Giles nodded, and Remus studied him carefully and noted, "You don't seem terribly surprised by that piece of news—am I to take it that you're aware of current events back home?"

Giles hesitated, then nodded again--though slowly and reluctantly--before elaborating, "I've got a friend in London who summarizes the important pieces from The Daily Prophet and a few other Wizarding papers and mails them to me as mundane written reports every week or so—I can't have Wizarding papers lying around here: too many questions to answer from my charges if they spotted one."

Remus blinked, a little surprised. "You mean you haven't told them about the Wizarding World? Considering all you've been through in the past three years, I'd have thought that some incident or another would have forced you to let loose the secret."

Giles shook his head. "Wizards give this place a wide berth, and the Council was always firm about keeping Slayers out of contact with the Wizarding community. When the fools fired me back in January—" Remus winced, having heard that story through Dumbledore's sources, and he directed a sympathetic expression at Giles, who acknowledged the sentiment with a glance and continued: "—I sent a letter to the Ministry of Magic requesting guidance as to the circumstances under which I should reveal the secret. Given the rather inept level of performance I've noted in the reports until recently, I was surprised at the sensibility of the reply: I was authorized to tell any and all of the young people who have been working with me about the secret if in my best judgment it was necessary for them to know in order to deal with the threat we were facing."

"The timing of your request was probably fortunate—Scrimgeour isn't a perfect Minister by any means, but he is aware of the need to bend the rules at times when the situation is dire, though that tendency has steered him wrong at times." Remus looked thoughtful as he considered Giles' comments, and after a moment he added, "As thoroughly as the notice of the Wizarding World has been attracted into your direction in the last year, Rupert, I'm impressed that you've managed to keep at least one secret up to now." Giles raised an eyebrow, and Remus let him wait for a moment before adding:

"Heard any news about Faith lately?"

Giles straightened suddenly and snapped, "You've seen her? Is she all right? How--?"

"Alive and well—and very well protected at the moment." Remus was amused—in the years he had known the former Watcher he could count the number of times he had caught the man off guard on the fingers of one hand. Giles' expression demanded an immediate answer, and the werewolf decided not to risk violence by being coy: "She wandered into a Wizarding commerce center by pure chance, and ran across some Death Eaters who saw a chance to ingratiate themselves with their bastard of a Master by capturing her. She was putting up a vicious fight before a Special Operative of the English Ministry of Magic came upon the scene, dispatched the rest of the Death Eaters, and spirited Faith off to a safe location. Since that time, he has been training her and instructing her in the ways of our world, as she is now at risk from the dark element within it."

Remus saw Giles relax visibly, and was about to elaborate further when the sound of scratching at the front door echoed through the room. Both men turned to the door in surprise, and Giles was about to step forward to investigate when a tentative knock followed the scratching. Giles blinked in even greater surprise, and hastened to open the door—where the sight of Buffy stroking the brow of a beautiful black owl perched on her arm caused his jaw to drop in complete confusion.

Buffy—who had decided to stop by to thank Giles for completely bailing the Scoobies out of a seriously unpleasant situation the night before—registered that her Watcher was completely stunned for whatever reason, and her first instinct was to explain the weirdness: "Hey—I just decided to stop by, and I saw this pretty owl smacking your front door: when I walked up she decided to play nice with me. What's the deal?"

Giles blinked again, then again, and it was Remus who reached out and retrieved the letter that was attached to the owl's left leg. The owl screeched in thanks and darted into the morning sky with breathtaking speed, and Remus glanced at the address written on the letter before handing it to Giles—after which he bowed deeply to Buffy and stated simply, "It is a great honor to meet you, Miss Summers—my name is Remus Lupin."

Buffy favored Remus with a polite nod, then looked pointedly at Giles and asked, "This isn't another of your morally ambiguous friends from your days as 'Ripper,' is he? I really don't want to have to deal with more Chaos magic, thank you very much."

Giles was not listening to Buffy: he had not received a letter by owl in the entire time he had been in Sunnydale—even his correspondence with the English Ministry of Magic had been conducted through Muggle post--and he was intent on finding what had caused one to turn up on his doorstep on this day. Remus noted the former Watcher's absorption and took it upon himself to reply, "Rupert is an old family friend, Miss Summers, and I have. . .sources that allow me to be aware of who you are and what you have done for this world. Please accept my thanks and tell your friends the same when you see them next."

Buffy gave Remus a somewhat bewildered but pleased look—she didn't hear something like that every day. "That's very. . .nice of you, Mr. Lupin." She looked appraisingly at him and asked, "What exactly are these sources? It's not like what we do is showing up on the front pages of newspapers."

Buffy wondered at the sudden grin on Remus' face before he composed himself and replied apologetically, "I'm sorry, Miss Summers, but—like you—I have certain obligations of secrecy to maintain—"

"Good Lord." Remus and Buffy turned to see Giles staring at the letter with a stunned expression, and it was a moment before the older man was able to look at his friend and his Slayer and comment, "It looks as if she's going to find out in any event, Remus. That piece of news you came to give me just sent me a letter—and Buffy and I apparently need to make a trip to the Los Angeles branch of Gringotts. Care to join us?"

Remus raised an interested eyebrow and took the letter from Giles' hand as Buffy stared at both Englishmen and asked, "What's a Gringotts?"

* * *

Luna reached out and squeezed Ginny's shoulder, then left the library. Ginny turned for a moment to watch her best friend leave, then turned back to the massive Potions text in front of her—Professor Slughorn had warned his NEWT-level students that a major exam would be coming soon, and she was ruthlessly reviewing the course outline that Hermione had thoughtfully provided for her in preparation for that inevitable event. She would have to leave in an hour for the final practice before the next day's always-thrilling Gryffindor/Slytherin Quidditch clash, but she was going to use that time to good effect. It wasn't as if she had anything more enjoyable to do during that time.

It had been almost three months now since Harry had come to the Burrow with a solemn expression on his face. She had not seen him since the day of Bill and Fleur's wedding, and she had been busy completing the OWLs that had been postponed after the Death Eater attack on Hogwarts that had maimed Bill and killed Professor Dumbledore. Her grades had come back, and—while they had not rivaled Hermione's marks from the year before—they placed her well into the top part of her class. She had been planning her schedule for her sixth year when Harry arrived with Hermione and Ron flanking him like bodyguards. Harry had turned to his best friends and asked for a moment of privacy, and when they were alone he had spoken quietly but urgently to her. He had obtained the assistance of the Minister of Magic for his plan, and carrying it out was going to involve a massive degree of deception directed both at Voldemort and the entire Wizarding World. She had stared at him with wide eyes, and he stared back for a silent moment before he added quietly, "I need your help with this, Ginny." She had consented before hearing another word, and had not stopped regretting it since.

There had been great uncertainty as to whether Hogwarts would open at all in the fall, with the horror over the attack and the resultant death of the most powerful wizard on the side of Light. In those dark days in early August, it was rumored that neither Harry Potter nor his close friends would be attending—causing widespread concern among the families of muggleborn students that none of their protectors would be present. In a press conference held in Diagon Alley, Harry Potter had laid those rumors to rest—with Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley standing by his side and the rest of the Weasley clan in the front row, he announced that he would attend Hogwarts in the fall and urged that all who would stand against the darkness to help them keep the school open. After a long moment of silence, the waiting reporters and the rest of the crowd burst into cheers, and—other than the predictable but lamentable drop in the ranks of Slytherin House, now headed by Professor Slughorn—the number of returning students had exceeded the wildest hopes of Professor McGonagall and the rest of the staff. Ginny had stood by and listened to the cheers, and known that it was all a lie.

Oh, Ron and Hermione were there for the first day, and they managed to attend most of their classes—but they disappeared for extended periods of time on "school business" that the Headmistress was remarkably uncommunicative about when asked by the curious. As for Harry. . .Ginny was shocked that anyone could believe that the dark-haired young man who was dutifully attending seventh-year classes was Harry Potter, scar or not. Tonks had the physical appearance down pat, but Harry's mannerisms. . .his daily routine? Not even close. The announcement that he was giving up Quidditch for the time being to concentrate on more weighty matters helped—Tonks would sooner be able to Transfigure Voldemort into a Flobberworm with a wandless spell than to simulate Harry's brilliance on the Firebolt—but for "Harry Potter" to simply stand by while other NEWT DADA students produced Patronuses? Ridiculous—but no one seemed inclined to question the oddity, though she had noted Luna, Neville, and a few others giving her sympathetic looks when she and "Harry" were in close proximity. Of course, since Harry and she were still broken up both in reality and as far as the rest of the world was concerned, those looks could have been for completely obvious reasons rather than failure of the masquerade—she was afraid to ask.

Harry occasionally appeared as himself at public events—with Tonks shadowing him with grim efficiency when he did—but usually it was Tonks appearing and risking a Death Eater attack when "Harry Potter" was needed to make a stirring speech urging continued resistance against "Little Tom Riddle and his gang of bigoted thugs." Ginny always had to suppress a grin when she heard that—it might be Tonks delivering the insult to the gasps and cheers of the crowds, but the words were pure Harry. Voldemort had not taken the insults lying down, and his anger had shown in the poor planning of the retaliatory attacks—the Death Eaters had taken substantial casualties in recent weeks, though they had not come without significant losses among the ranks of the Aurors and those they protected.

Ginny also heard the whispers about the new hero who stalked Death Eaters wherever they might be. The Wizarding papers dealt openly in rumors of him—a figure in fine silk robes who darted from the shadows as the masked wizards were about to slay their targets and left them quivering on the ground before vanishing in a display of flowing dark hair and sparkling magic. Some wondered if Dumbledore had cheated death and was masquerading as a younger man to prevent being recognized, while others wondered if Sirius Black had returned from beyond the veil to avenge himself against Peter Pettigrew and his dark master. . .and those were the tamest of the rumors. Ginny shook her head and wondered at how the world would react to the name of Connor Galleon—and at the astonishment that would follow if that mask was lifted.

Ginny set her jaw, and went back to work. No one would learn the secret from her—if this was what Harry wanted her to do to contribute to the war effort, then she would give it—but when it was all over and she had him alone, she would be having a long, long talk with the young man she loved about having left her here while he went off to save the world.

* * *

"CRUCIO!"

The young Death Eater screamed in agony, and Voldemort savored the sound like a fine wine as he slowly circled the writhing wizard, keeping his wand trained on target as he stared down with his red eyes. After a moment, he lifted the curse and whispered, "That was just to get your attention, Colson—there's plenty more where that came from if you try to hide details from me again. Now: how is it that a single young woman—even a Slayer—managed to defeat all four of you?"

John Colson took a couple of ragged breaths before looking up at his Master and gathering his thoughts: he knew that another misstep would probably be his last. He coughed, then replied, "The stunner we hit her with had little effect, my Lord—we wanted to capture her relatively intact, and she attacked immediately after we offered her a chance to surrender. Smith went down immediately, and after a few minutes Adamson was also rendered unconscious. Walters and I had her wounded and on the run when I heard someone shout 'Stupefy!' Walters went down, and I was turning to see what had happened when I got hit too. I only caught a glimpse of him before blacking out—and I woke up in custody of Magical Law Enforcement in Anaheim. You know the rest, my Lord."

Voldemort glared at his servant. "Indeed I do." He had caught wind of the capture of the four Death Eaters from his sources in California, and had arranged for a single Portkey to be smuggled to Colson—whom he knew to be the brightest of the group, though such things were relative. He watched Colson shiver for another moment before asking quietly, "What did you see in that glimpse, Colson?"

"A tall wizard with long dark hair, my Lord." Colson replied eagerly, hoping to spare himself further pain. Voldemort's eyes widened and seemed to glow redder, and the young Death Eater recoiled and asked, "Have I offended you?"

"STUPEFY!" The stunner from Voldemort's wand crashed into Colson and instantly rendered him unconscious, and Voldemort took several deep breaths: the rage he had felt had almost caused him to use _Avada Kedavra_ without thinking and—failure in this mission aside—the boy had promise as a Death Eater.

"My Lord—are you all right?" The quiet voice of Severus Snape drifted into Voldemort's ears, and he intentionally paused for a moment before turning to his trusted advisor and glaring. Snape did not flinch, but immediately dropped to his knees and kissed the hem of Voldemort's robe before whispering, "Forgive my presumption, but you have been exerting yourself greatly in recent days, and this news was most unwelcome."

Voldemort snorted. "Stop acting like a nursemaid, Severus: it really isn't you—and get up. I'll let you know when I want you to grovel." Snape complied immediately, and the Dark Lord looked carefully at the Potions Master before shaking his head in disgust and adding, "You're right about the news being unwelcome, and in more ways than one—I take it you recognized the description."

Snape nodded. "The description matched that from the rumors about Connor Galleon—he certainly is getting around. That makes eight major United States cities he's been seen in, along with the seven cities in Europe, six in Asia—and that dark ritual in central Australia he stumbled across. It's enough to make one wonder if he's used ritual magic to duplicate himself once or twice, given all the appearances he's managed to make in England during that same period."

Voldemort shook his head. "Those rituals greatly weaken the recipient—particularly without the use of dark magic to power them—and he's been described universally as being very powerful. No, it's reasonable to guess that he's one man, and—given the reports of my spies within the Ministry—he's a Special Operative, which would give him access to International Floos without running afoul of red tape. When I succeed in capturing Scrimgeour, I will question him at length about the point, among many others." Voldemort turned away from Snape, looking at a painting of a darkly glowing rune as he added, "Severus, I need some time to consider recent developments—take Colson with you as you go." He heard the sound of motion as Snape bowed, and heard the whisper of fabric as Snape's silent spell lifted the unconscious wizard from the stone floor. After a moment, the door closed, leaving Voldemort alone with his thoughts.

_That man is becoming a nuisance_ Voldemort stared at the glowing rune, using it to focus his thoughts as he considered the news. Potter's unexpected emergence as an inspirational leader even as he completed his education had been an irritating enough development, but the Ministry's new operative was becoming a folk hero in his own right, and folk heroes had a nasty tendency to make people who would never otherwise consider sticking their necks out decide to get involved. The description of "Connor Galleon" didn't match that of any relatively recent Hogwarts graduates, and his investigations had not revealed any graduates from other wizarding schools who fit the description or who bore that surname; clearly, the name that he had learned through great effort was an alias, and the man's appearance a disguise.

_If he is a man at all _Voldemort's spies had noted a curious thing: Galleon had been spotted at several of Harry Potter's public appearances, but never at one when Auror Nymphadora Tonks was in attendance. Tonks was well known as being a Metamorphmagus, and her fighting skills were well regarded: perhaps she was assuming an alternate identity to create this legend. Voldemort pondered the matter, and decided to try to have the Auror shadowed during one of her rare public appearances—perhaps she would lead the way to the mysterious Connor Galleon, or simply become him.

_Ah, Potter: what to do about you?_ While Connor Galleon was an acute problem, Voldemort knew that Harry Potter was ultimately going to be the most significant threat to his plans. The boy was exceedingly powerful, and growing more so by the day—though Harry had learned to shield his mind against any probing or false images directed at him by his enemy, Voldemort could sense the power even through the blocked link between the two of them. He was not yet an even match for Voldemort—and almost certainly never would be—but he would soon be powerful enough to be a danger, and he had powerful allies even after Dumbledore's demise.

Voldemort turned away from the painting and walked to a tall oak cabinet carved with disturbing runes. He opened it and took out a silk bag closed with a drawstring. He closed the cabinet, looked at the grandfather clock on the far wall of the room, then turned to the door and pointed his wand at it as he hissed a complex phrase in Parseltongue. The door vanished as if it had never existed, leaving solid stone in its place. Voldemort grunted in satisfaction—the ritual he was about to perform would take more than twenty-four hours to complete and would leave him more or less helpless for twenty-four more when he completed it. The Fidelius Charm would guarantee that the otherwise negligible chance that his enemies might attack his fortress during this time would be reduced to zero, and the removal of the door would remove the temptation for his minions to attack him while he was vulnerable. Severus would be more than capable of handling matters while he was out of touch—his regard for the former Hogwarts professor had grown immensely in the past few months: he had been so pleased at the news of Dumbledore's death that he had refrained from using the Cruciatus Curse on Snape for what had been, after all, a technical violation of his orders to young Draco Malfoy.

Snape's report of his humiliating defeat of young Potter had caused the Dark Lord to cackle in glee before praising him to all present as the ideally obedient Death Eater: one who had passed up a clear-cut chance at personal vengeance in deference to his Master's orders. He had feigned reluctance before granting Severus' quiet request to spare Draco's life, but at length he had glared at the visibly terrified boy and hissed, "You did well to a point, Draco—but you are still too soft and weak to serve me adequately. I will commend you to the continued supervision of your old professor, and I suggest that you become a better student of the path he leads you down." He had brought out his wand with lightning speed and directed the Cruciatus Curse at Draco for five full seconds before lifting it and concluding, "Any further failures on your part will make that experience seem like a fond memory." He had nodded to Severus, who led the shaking boy away.

Voldemort smiled inwardly. _You think yourself safe behind the walls of Hogwarts and those of your mind, Potter. There is magic that can overwhelm all of that, if one is willing to pay the price. Tomorrow, as you watch your friends play Quidditch, sitting in your place of honor in front of the entire school, you will feel my power and know that Voldemort can reach you wherever you hide—and the Wizarding World will hear your screams and tremble! _Having indulged that inner moment of triumph, Voldemort reached into the silk bag and pulled out a handful of diamond dust. He began to trace a circle in the center of the room, and the dust glittered in the dim light of the room as it drifted into place.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	11. Chapter 9

[Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART NINE

Faith stretched lazily and sat up in bed. The room in the Wizarding Inn that Connor had led them to was furnished with a quaint but attractive antique bedroom set, and the mattress had been very comfortable, even by the standards of the bed at Connor's house. She got out of bed and walked into the bathroom, where she smiled at seeing the large bathtub that she had noticed the night before when they checked in. She drew a bath—adding a plentiful amount of bubble bath from the tap that Connor had pointed out to her the night before—and leaned back into the tub with a blissful expression on her face as she lazily scrubbed herself and pondered the events of the prior day.

Settling things with the Goblins had taken quite a while, and by the time she had signed the last document and departed with a bag containing a few hundred Galleons, and a credit card that would draw either Galleons or dollars from her new vault depending on the need of the moment, it was late afternoon. Connor had frowned and noted that they clearly would need more time to finish all of their business, and that after a bit more shopping they would obtain some rooms at the local inn. Faith agreed, and they went to a clothing store next—where Connor briefly explained to her the benefits of garments made of dragonskin. The Slayer grinned wickedly and drew the sales representative—a tall blonde witch who had been eyeing Connor without bothering to be subtle about it—aside and whispered to her for several moments, after which the blonde laughed out loud and nodded once before taking Faith into the back area reserved for taking measurements. Harry frowned behind his mask and shook his head. _What is that girl plotting now? _

After a few moments, Faith emerged and walked over to Connor, calling out, "They'll have it ready tomorrow—let's hit a couple more stores before we call it a night." She walked to the door, and Connor followed, still shaking his head in bewilderment.

As they left the store, a large black owl descended from the sky and landed on a post near them. Faith and Connor stopped, and the owl stared at Faith and hooted insistently at her. She walked over and stroked the bird's brow before removing the letter from its leg and giving it some of the owl treats that Connor had given her earlier. The owl cried out in thanks and darted off into the sky, and Faith walked over to a nearby bench and sat down, opening the letter as Connor sat next to her. After a few moments, she laughed and shook her head in amusement. Connor blinked in surprise and asked, "What does it say?"

Faith pulled the first page from the letter away from the second—revealing that it was actually two one-page letters—and handed it to Connor as she began reading the second one. Connor opened the letter, and read:

_Dear Faith,_

_Your letter came as quite a surprise—although the surprise was somewhat lessened by the fact that it arrived in the same hour that my old friend Remus Lupin arrived to give me news of your recent adventures in the Wizarding World. He assures me that you are under the protection of someone very capable—though he declined to identify that person-- and that assurance relieved many of the concerns that I had been having about your well-being since your departure. By the way, your efforts to conceal your movements were quite well done—my sources on the Council tell me that they still have no idea where you are. However, I have better local sources than they do, and I would strongly suggest that if you wish to remain "out of the game" that you cease free-lance Slaying in Southern California—if I've heard rumors of your doings it is only a matter of time before the Council catches on as well and starts to close their net._

_Faith, I regret that our dealings together did not leave you willing to trust me with the truth about what happened regarding Mr. Finch—and that my own deception in reaction to yours undoubtedly made things worse. What happened was a tragic accident, and I was completely opposed to the manner in which the Council chose to respond to it. While your decision to depart may have been the best one in fact if not for the reasons you had, I hope you realize that we wish the best for you and will be available to assist you in time of need. While Sunnydale High School is no more, my home phone number remains the same—please use it at need._

_Thank you for calling our attention to the existence of the Gringotts account—the story that the Gringotts branch manager related to us regarding its history was quite moving, and a reminder of the great good that a Slayer can do even when her life is far too short. That power is still yours, Faith—and in spite of what has happened I am very proud of the fact that you are clearly choosing to use it to help others._

_Now that you are aware of owl post, please feel free to use it to contact me to keep in touch in non-emergency situations: those pillocks on the Council don't have a clue about it, so it will be secure._

_Stay safe,_

_Giles_

Connor looked up from the letter and saw that Faith was still reading the second letter. She had hinted to him about the circumstances that had caused her to leave Sunnydale, but Rupert Giles' letter made it clear that the circumstances had been even more grim than he would have imagined. Faith's expression twisted slightly, and Connor asked quietly, "What's wrong?"

Faith looked up and hesitated for a long moment before handing Connor the second letter. Connor opened it and read:

_Hey Faith,_

_To get the obvious out of the way, thanks for dropping me off at the hospital and for not cracking my skull when you knocked me out—oh, and for saving me from Trick. The Mayor wasn't able to find anyone good to replace him, and that helped us beat Snake Guy in the end._

_Nice of you to let us know all that money is there—Giles is already planning, and we should be able to use some of it to get some nifty new equipment and to make sure bills aren't a problem in the future while we leave most of it for the girls who come around after us to use for the good fight. There'll probably be enough to pay for some fun, too—and we could certainly use it._

_I love this whole thing with owls delivering letters—that pretty black one showed up at Giles' place just as I got there, and when Giles opened the door he saw me stroking it as it sat on my arm. I thought Giles was going to faint for a second there. Between the letter and Giles' friend Remus—cute, but I've just had a bad breakup and I gather he has a girlfriend—we got more news about you than we'd heard in eight months of rumors. We've called the others, and they're glad you're OK—Mom says hi._

_Xander was kind of quiet when I told him, even though I could tell he was glad you were OK. Call him or send him an owl or something, OK? Even after everything that happened, I know him well enough to know he's worried about you, and I know you haven't talked since. . .well, no point in dwelling on it._

_Keep in touch—whatever has happened, I don't want Evil-Wizard-With-A-Stupid-Made-up-Name getting you, and we can always make with the research if you think it will help. _

_Take care,_

_Buffy_

Connor smiled at the irreverence of the older Slayer, then frowned as he noted another reference to Faith's past. He looked over at Faith and asked quietly, "What happened between you and Xander?"

The expression that briefly flickered across Faith's face was unlike anything Harry had ever seen before, and he was still trying to interpret it when Faith sighed and whispered, "Something I wish I could take back." She shrugged and got up, adding, "But I'm not in the mood for a heart to heart about my screwed-up life right now—let's finish that shopping and get to that inn you've been talking about."

Faith saw reluctance on Connor's face, but he nodded and they concluded their business quickly at the other stores. After checking in to the inn, they ate a fine dinner at the restaurant inside and talked quietly for a couple of hours before calling it an evening. Connor walked Faith to her door, and while she was opening it she had a sudden impulse. She slowly turned back to the wizard, slipped her arms around his waist, and kissed him on the lips in a manner that was not particularly forceful, but most definitely invitational. When she released him and stepped back, Connor blinked, coughed uncomfortably, and managed a quiet "Good night, Faith" before turning and walking down to his own room.

_He's not used to being kissed like that_ Faith mused as she soaked in the tub. _He acted as if he had no idea what to do or say—even if he was gay he should have some kind of line ready to deal with a move like that at his age._ _If he has a girlfriend or a wife somewhere he could have just said so—what's he hiding? _She frowned, then stood up and emptied the tub, toweling herself off as she continued to ponder the situation. _I've got another day on the town with him—he's bound to drop more clues about his secret no matter what we do. _Nodding to herself with satisfaction, she left the bathroom to get dressed.

Harry frowned impatiently. _How long can it take to try on a dragonskin outfit? _He was about to call over a clerk to see what the holdup was when Faith's head emerged from the edge of the changing room curtain: "Hey, C—could you come and check this out for me? I want a man's opinion on this."

Harry sighed inwardly. _Great—now I'm a fashion consultant. Hermione never makes me do stuff like this. _Outwardly, he maintained the polite dignity of the Connor mask as he nodded and walked over to the curtain as Faith popped back out of view. He called out, "Faith, I really don't know much about fashion—all I know about dragonskin concerns its magical properties—" He went through the curtain without pausing, and managed two more steps before freezing in his tracks and staring openly at the sight in front of him.

Faith had shed her robes and was wearing a garment that—at first glance—seemed to be painted onto her body. It was a pale red, and it took a good, long look for Connor to see the faint lines in the "fabric" that made it clear that it was indeed some kind of reptilian hide—though the scale lines were far less obvious than for any dragonskin garment he had ever seen before. The garment covered Faith's entire torso down to her waist, went halfway up her neck, and covered her upper arms. A pair of equally snug pants made out of the same material covered her legs and body from the waist down. Against his will, Connor realized that there was absolutely no visual indication that Faith was wearing any undergarments.

The saleswitch—who had previously staged displays similar to this for young witches with wealthy older lovers—would have been more jealous of the effect that the younger witch was having on the handsome stranger were it not for the hundred galleon tip that she had been given and a whispered promise to come back to tell her how well the clothing had done its job. She smiled slyly and addressed Connor: "Most dragonskin is tough and only moderately flexible even after treatment—making it unsuitable for clothing of the kind Faith is wearing, though it is quite well suited for suits and jackets that are fitted loosely. However, belly hide is more flexible in all true dragons, while it is far tougher per inch of thickness due to its important function in protecting the vital organs. It resists cutting force well and dissipates blunt impact far better than would be expected. The belly hide of the Chinese Fireball is the best of all for this purpose—it is almost as flexible as soft cloth after treatment without losing any of its protective qualities—including being more fireproof than asbestos. When Cooling and Cushioning Charms are applied, a skintight, comfortable garment that provides formidable protection for most of the body while allowing the wearer to move freely can be crafted for those who are well off enough to afford it and with the discerning taste to ask for it." The saleswitch winked at Faith, then slipped out the curtain past the still-staring Connor.

Faith slipped closer to Connor—who had recovered from his momentary surprise and was carefully meeting the gaze of the approaching Slayer—and stopped at just the right distance for him to be able to get a good look at her whole body in spite of his attempts to avoid the sight. She smiled guilelessly at him and asked quietly, "So—is it worth six thousand galleons? I've got plenty of money now, but I don't want to get ripped off."

_Oh Merlin yes, it would be a bargain at ten times the price! _Harry ruthlessly quashed the immediate reply from his thoughts, and managed something more subdued after a moment: "It seems to be designed to meet your needs well, Faith—once we have your wand we'll work on Switching Charms, so you can discard your robe quickly when you need freedom of movement." Faith looked faintly disappointed at the reaction, and Harry thought furiously before coming up with a comment that would be appropriate for Connor's reaction: "I would advise picking your spots for that, Faith. Wizards might be too distracted to come up with anything more complicated than a _Wingardium Leviosa_ charm for a few moments, but I suspect that the witches will make up for it with spells fueled by extreme envy."

Faith favored him with a small smile before taking pity on him and reaching for her robe, donning it quickly and allowing the wizard to breathe normally again. She winked, then commented, "Let's go pay for it, then—we've still got to get my wand." She darted through the opening and—after several more slow, deep breaths—Connor followed her in silence.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, they had walked for some distance, with no apparent pattern. Faith was about to ask Connor a question when Connor turned left down a nondescript alley and walked about twenty feet before stopping. He looked over at Faith and said quietly, "I need you to close your eyes and let me pick you up."

Faith grinned wickedly and replied, "You could have done that last night—and I wouldn't have had to close my eyes."

Connor coughed self-consciously, then elaborated, "It's a security and magical thing—I can't let you see the last of the trip to our destination."

Faith looked at Connor intently, but sensed no deception on his part. She stepped over to him and said, "All right, C—you're the boss." She closed her eyes tightly and relaxed, and after a moment she felt Connor gently picking her up in his arms. She felt a motion as Connor moved his wand and mumbled a phrase under his breath, then an odd sensation that seemed to resemble what Connor had told her Apparating would feel like. She felt herself being put down, and after a moment she asked, "Can I open my eyes now?"

"Just a moment." Faith heard one set of quiet steps moving to about ten feet away, then returning after about five seconds. She felt Connor step up next to her and heard him say, "You can open your eyes now."

Faith opened her eyes and saw a small, comfortably furnished room with no other persons visible within. An open door led to a small bedroom, and another one led to a bathroom, but there were no windows or exit doors that Faith could see. Faith turned back to Connor and asked, "Nice place—but why are we here? I thought we were coming to get my wand?"

Connor handed Faith a folded piece of paper and asked, "Would you read this, please?"

Faith took the paper and opened it. Written on it in graceful, flowing handwriting were nine words:

_Mr. Ollivander is standing right in front of you._

Faith blinked, then looked up in time to see an elderly man in dress robes shimmer into view. She had a momentary inclination to attack, but she remembered the story that Connor had told her about the charm that had protected the Potters before they were betrayed, and she also recognized the name of the man in front of her from a few Daily Prophet stories. She met the old wizard's eyes and said, "Hey—you're that wandmaker guy who disappeared from Diagon Alley last year. Those Death Eater dudes and their boss have been looking all over for you."

Ollivander smiled. "He was looking in the wrong places—not that there was a right place to look. Once I realized that the Dark Lord was after me, I resorted to the Fidelius Charm with myself as the Secret Keeper. After many months of wandering alone, I took the Special Operative here into my confidence and he brought me to this place and cast the Charm on it. In that manner, I can meet with trustworthy clients and still be completely shielded from discovery, as being brought into this room by its Secret Keeper without the secret being directly revealed will sufficiently cloud the memories of the visitor to prevent the Dark Lord from discovering them by Leglimency." Faith nodded in comprehension, and the wizard smiled again as he concluded, "Where are my manners? I am Oscar Ozymandias Ollivander, Miss Faith—and I am honored to offer my wandmaking services to a Slayer."

Faith inclined her head to the wandmaker, and replied, "Let's get started, then—you're a busy guy, and I think C has other plans for us today."

Ollivander nodded and led them into the bedroom. He waved his wand and the room changed dramatically—revealing a large number of shelves on the wall filled with boxes. He walked towards a single box, explaining, "As the Special Operative could tell you, it can be very tricky to match a witch or wizard with their wand—it can take hours of work and a lot of pyrotechnics. However, there are only five Slayers known to have been successfully fitted with wands, and in each case the wood and core combination for them was the same." He reached the box, carried it back to Faith, and opened it—revealing a wand that looked much sturdier than either Connor's or Ollivander's. Ollivander nodded at Faith's intent gaze at the wand and elaborated, "I crafted this when I was still a young man, after reading of then-recent exploits of Slayers and hoping that one day one would come to me in need of a wand. The wand itself is nine inches long and is made of oak from a tree that survived being struck by lightning—for sturdiness. Between its girth, construction, and sharpened point, it can be used as a stake in an emergency, though I would not recommend doing so unless it is truly necessary."

"Makes sense—I can always carry extra stakes." Faith was still looking intently at the wand, and her next question was whispered: "What about the magical core?"

"Unicorn blood, voluntarily given." Faith saw Connor react in surprise at the revelation, and was about to comment on it when Ollivander added, "For purity."

Faith flinched, and—for the first time she could remember—was somewhat embarrassed by a certain part of her past as she hesitantly replied, "Ah. . .we may have a problem here. I mean, I don't know about those other Slayers, but, um, I've—well, I mean, I'm not--"

Ollivander's eyes widened in comprehension, and he chuckled before elaborating, "The purity in question is of purpose, my dear—not of body. A Slayer is a mighty warrior dedicated to a great cause, and only a core with exceptional purity of focus could survive the touch of her power. It is possible that other cores might work—and possibly work even better—but my resources here are limited and your need is great. Perhaps someday—when the Dark Lord is vanquished and my shop is my own again—you can visit me anew and we can experiment. For now. . ." He gestured to the wand and invited, "Would you care to pick it up, Miss Faith?"

Faith nodded, and she hesitantly reached for the wand, picking it up by its base and pointing it away from the persons in the room. She felt a tingle, and the room started to get brighter. Connor and Ollivander were looking at her in wonder, and she asked, "What is it—what's wrong?" Connor pointed to a mirror, and Faith stepped over to look into it.

She saw that she was surrounded with a soft, silvery aura of light that sparkled as if all of the stars in the nighttime sky were hovering around her. She stared and forgot to breathe for several moments, until the aura faded and left her with a stunned expression. She looked at the others and saw that Connor had a similar expression on his face. While Ollivander had recovered more quickly, his voice was hushed as he explained, "Yes—that was the effect described for the previous Slayers. . .though I must say my ancestors understated the extent of the effect to a remarkable degree. That wand will serve you well, my dear. Let us test it with a few simple spells." He opened a small door in the back wall of the room, and they followed a short hallway that ended in a large room with objects that both Faith and Connor had seen often lately; clearly, it was meant as a magical training room. Ollivander nodded to Faith and commented, "The Special Operative told me that he has been demonstrating spells to you—let us see what you have learned." He pointed to a small stone resting on a table and instructed, "Make that stone float."

Connor raised an eyebrow—first year students started with feathers for this charm. He watched as Faith pulled out her wand, stared at the stone, and performed a perfect flick and swish motion as she called out, "Wingardium Leviosa!"

Nothing happened for a moment, and Faith was about to cease concentrating in annoyance when the entire table—all fifty pounds of it—floated upwards until it was five feet in the air, then hovered quietly, with the stone still resting in its spot on the table without having so much as quivered. Faith—not sure whether to be proud or embarrassed—forced herself to keep concentrating and carefully lowered the table back to the ground. She looked back to Ollivander, who nodded with a grim smile on his face as he explained, "As I anticipated: your spells will always be powerful, Miss Faith—but you will need to practice for a long time to master fine control, just as any other magical student does. Very praiseworthy for a first effort, as I'm sure the Special Operative could tell you."

Connor nodded. "Yes, good job, Faith—first years usually don't get the hand of levitating objects that size until nearly the end of the spring term. We can work out the kinks with the aiming thing later." He walked out into the room—silently casting a low-power shielding charm on himself—and turned back to Faith and raised his wand before calling out: "All right, Faith—just like I demonstrated it with the Disarming Spell. Don't hold back."

Faith had seen the furtive motion of Connor's wand, and relaxed. _He's a powerful wizard dude—I'm not going to be able to hurt him with a spell that twelve-year olds can do—especially when he's got a spell up to protect him. _She directed her best Slayer Glare at Connor, leveled her wand at him, and shouted, "Expelliarmus!"

A red bolt of substantial brightness darted from the end of the oak wand and struck Connor directly in the chest as the aura of a defensive shield appeared and faded instantly—overcome by the power of the spell. His wand went flying and Connor himself was thrown back twenty feet. He landed in an untidy heap and—while still clearly conscious—he definitely looked worse for the wear.

"Shit!" Faith cursed involuntarily as he ran over to Connor and knelt next to him, checking for signs of serious injury as she continued to talk to him. "Damn C—I didn't mean to--"

"I'm all right, Faith—no need to panic." Connor still looked a bit groggy, but he managed to get to his feet without any visible difficulty and directed a gentle smile at the Slayer as he added, "Let that be an object lesson to you, Faith—don't let anyone hit you with an attack that you're not actively defending against, even if you're sure they can't hurt you. " He shook his head again to clear it, and his voice sounded normal again as he suggested, "Why don't we stick with some less potentially painful spells for now? We can give the training room a workout with the more dangerous ones later."

Faith nodded, and they tried several more easy spells, with mostly calm results before Connor called a halt. "Good enough, I think." He turned to Ollivander and added, "Fine work, sir—it's clearly an excellent match."

"And a worthy mistress for my work." Ollivander walked over to Faith, grasped her right hand, and raised it to his lips, kissing it gently. Faith blinked, and Ollivander carefully released her hand before commenting, "There are too few in this world who are willing to fight the forces of darkness, even when they know what is at stake." He turned slightly, and Faith could see that he was watching Connor as well as he concluded, "Please be careful."

Faith saw the grim look on Connor's face as he nodded in reply, but the younger wizard offered no other response to Ollivander's comment as he scooped up Faith and waited for her to close her eyes. After smiling at Ollivander, she did so. She felt Connor take a few steps, then experienced the sensation of what she now knew to be Apparation. A few seconds later, Connor whispered, "Go ahead," as he lowered her to the ground. They were back in the alley where they had started, with no sign of where they had been.

Faith stretched for a moment, then looked back at Connor and asked, "So—what was the real reason for all of that mumbo jumbo? If Lord Loser Made Up Name could use his brain zapping powers to get info out of the heads of someone who had been let in on the secret, the spell wouldn't be much good anyway—so what's the real deal?"

Connor looked over at her with a thoughtful expression, then answered: "He could be safe walking around alone with the Charm on, but he couldn't go home or to his store—they were being watched and anyone who came to see him would be in danger. He wandered from place to place until he contacted me and I used my own diplomatic access to get him here quietly and set him up in those rooms. By carrying you in like that, you weren't given the Secret and if something happens to me--"

"--I don't learn the secret and become a danger to the old man." Faith whispered, shaking her head. "So if you buy it, he's just stuck alone forever?"

"He knows the secret, so he'd become his own Secret Keeper for the rooms—he could trust someone else." Connor sighed and looked away, and Faith decided to drop the subject.

* * *

They walked quietly for some time as the morning moved on to noontime. They passed a small park which was currently occupied by several families, and they were preparing to walk into the grassy area when Faith caught a motion out of the corner of her eye and turned instantly on instinct. She cursed under her breath and snapped, "We've got company, C."

Connor turned and saw the black-robed figures slipping out of nearby alleys, their masks already in place. He quickly pulled out his wand and muttered a quick phrase. In the distance, the air seemed to shimmer in a huge hemisphere before fading back into invisibility. He turned to Faith and whispered urgently, "Faith—the local headquarters for Magical Law Enforcement is ten blocks to the north, and there's an anti-Apparation barrier up that'll take me too long to get free of. Run down there and drag every last officer you can find back here. I'll hold them off until you do."

Faith stared at Connor in disbelief as the tenth Death Eater came into view two hundred feet away, and it was a moment before she managed to snarl: "Damn it, C—if you think I'm leaving you alone to get killed, you're out of your fu--!"

"Faith—I can't beat them alone, and I can't beat them even with the help of an inexperienced witch. . .or an extraordinary Slayer." Connor's tone was terse, but his eyes were intense and pleading as he continued, "What I can do is hold them off and make it a lot harder for them to hurt innocent people while we wait for reinforcements. If I don't do this, a lot of good people will die, Faith—and I need your help. Please go."

Faith could not refuse that, whether she chose to see it as pleading or as an order. With another curse, she took off at a dead run without looking back. She passed Gringotts about halfway to her destination, and she vaguely noticed a guard apparently recognizing her and turning to go in before she passed out of sight.

When she was about a block away, she began seeing flashes of light and hearing the sound of objects being blown apart, and she came to a halt in horror. There were about twenty Death Eaters there, facing off against an approximately equal number of wizards dressed in blue robes with gold trim. They appeared to be in a standoff, and Faith immediately comprehended the plan of the evil wizards: hold off the cops while the smaller group slaughtered the lightly armed citizens without interference. She had to tip the balance here somehow, let the cops know where they needed to go, then go back and help Connor stall. _Yeah, that first one will be real easy._ She looked at a line of Death Eaters behind light cover and noticed some barrels within easy reach and chuckled. _Time to show these guys a few video game tricks._

The Death Eaters were startled to hear a crunching sound to their right flank and were completely unprepared to see a barrel bouncing in their direction at high speed. The first of the group of five was hit squarely by the barrel—which smashed and scattered grain around as the Death Eater dropped nervelessly to the ground—and the others started dodging about as more barrels came flying at them. Their opponents from Magical Law Enforcement were as startled as they were at first, but after a few seconds they started firing curses again, and in about thirty seconds five Death Eaters were lying unconscious on the ground. The leader of the officers called out to their benefactor, "Miss—what's going--?"

"No time—finish the rest of these jerks off and head to the park a mile to the south. At least ten more of these guys there, and only one guy holding them off. Gotta run!" Faith turned and ran back the way she had come and ran harder than she had before—she was astonished when a single quiet voice stopped her in her tracks:

"Faith—are you need of assistance?" Chairman Thrice-Gilded stood there, and the expressions of the attendants standing behind him at the foot of the steps of Gringotts suggested that he had rarely if ever appeared there in full view of the general public. Faith hesitated—her adrenaline levels threatening to make her eardrums blow out—and the ancient goblin elaborated, "I had sensed something disturbing was going on, and was about to send several of my retainers to investigate when the guards said you had passed in haste. A Slayer does not behave in such a manner without grave provocation—and as before, I am at your service."

Faith burst out with a rapid explanation of what was happening, and Thrice-Gilded considered the situation for fully five seconds before turning to the attendant behind him and ordering: "Assemble the elite guard on my direct authority." He pulled out a piece of parchment and pressed his signet ring to it—the parchment glowed and writing appeared on it, ending with Thrice-Gilded's seal. He handed the parchment to the attendant and added, "Ten of them will go north to assist Magical Law Enforcement in finishing off the Death Eaters there—the other twenty will immediately go to Blackstone Park and subdue the Death Eaters there."

The attendant nodded and left, and Faith commented, "Wow—thanks. I don't want you to think I'm freeloading—I've got money now and can pay for these guys--"

Thrice-Gilded chuckled. "My dear, you could indeed with little risk of financial distress—but there will be no charge: I consider it free advertising for just how useful goblin mercenaries can be. I have a feeling that they will be in great demand with that fool Voldemort engaging in atrocities like this, and our prices will be high. . .but affordable and fair under the circumstances. In any event, having Death Eater scum walking the streets and murdering our customers is bad for business, and I will enjoy teaching Tom Riddle the cost of reducing my profit margin." Faith laughed, and Thrice-Gilded's eyes seemed to twinkle for a moment before his expression turned grim and he added, "Unfortunately, it will take a few minutes to assemble the guard and none of us here on the steps at this moment are capable of putting up a good fight against those Death Eaters."

A chill went down Faith's spine, and she nodded, "Don't worry about it—me and C will save some for your guys to carve up." She turned and began sprinting for the park again, and Thrice-Gilded watched her recede from sight before whispering:

"May the Great Underwriter watch over you, child."

* * *

Faith ran with the boundless energy of the desperate, and many an Olympic hopeful would have turned green with envy at the time she managed for the half mile from Gringotts to the edge of Blackstone Park. She looked around frantically, trying to catch a glimpse of flowing black hair and a face unhidden by a mask, and was quickly rewarded by the sight of a quickly moving figure dodging curses and making quick throwing motions. She ran towards the figure, and was about a hundred feet away from him when she noticed what he was doing, and she stopped in her tracks again—bemused at the tactics being used by "the great and powerful Connor Galleon."

The Special Operative had clearly spent some time putting a rather powerful shielding spell up—Faith could see stunners and Disarming Spells splashing off of it without slowing him down noticeably—but he was not using the defensive advantage to fire back his own curses; instead, he was reaching into his pockets and pulling out small objects which he immediately flung at the nearest Death Eater before he darted off in another direction and reached into another pocket to begin the cycle again. Faith watched as the objects burst open on impact, and her sharp eyes widened as she observed the havoc that they wrought on Voldemort's minions.

A small doll leapt up and fixed its metal teeth on the ankle of one Death Eater, causing him to howl in agony and to leap up and down in a profoundly undignified manner. A small pink wad expanded into a huge bubble before bursting and covering two Death Eaters in foul, sticky goo that hindered their movement and nauseated them. A tiny model airplane circled menacingly around another Death Eater, occasionally spitting out bursts of tiny needles as the besieged wizard fired blasting curses in a vain effort to obliterate it. There were others, but Faith was getting the idea. _C's on total defense here: he's just going to try to keep them too off balance to start trying hard to zap him with the killing curse._ Her lips curled upward slightly, and she whispered, "Now—what can I do to help distract them?"

Ten seconds later, two of the Death Eaters who had not yet been occupied by the odd objects being thrown by the mysterious wizard who had attacked them moments before were coming up behind that wizard when they saw a blur of motion to their left and whirled to face it. . .as a figure in what looked like a skintight leather bodysuit did a forward somersault and landed five feet in front of them. Their eyes widened behind their masks, and Faith grinned wickedly as she slowly circled them, not moving to attack but directing their attention away from Connor. She saw Connor glance in their direction and she stood up a bit straighter—sticking her chest and her hips out further—and indulged in her best Harmony impression as she cooed, "Hey guys—can you point me to the nearest karaoke bar?"

Whatever response the baffled dark wizards might have come up with was lost as a commanding voice bellowed two words: "STUPEFY! STUPEFY!" The Death Eaters dropped like rocks, and Faith swooped in quickly and snatched their wands, snapping them in the same motion. Connor was already in motion, avoiding a hail of spells from the other direction as he passed Faith and gestured for her to follow. Faith complied and matched pace with Connor as they headed for a small group of trees. The wizard glanced at her and called out between breaths: "Where—Magical--Law Enforcement?"

"Voldie's boys have them busy, but there's help on the way." Faith explained the scene at the other side of town, and the encounter with Thrice Gilded afterwards as they ducked behind two of the larger trees. Faith glared at the rapidly assembling group of Death Eaters—there seemed to be eleven left—and turned back to Connor as she whispered, "We just need to hold out a little longer, C."

Connor nodded, and Faith could tell that the few moments she had been gone had been draining for him on many levels. She reached out and squeezed his shoulder, and the wizard smiled and whispered, "You're right—but I don't think that even that outfit is going to work quite the same way again: they're onto you." He glanced downward and smiled gently as he added, "It would have been a bargain at ten times the price, Faith."

Faith wondered at the odd look in Connor's intense green eyes as he said that, but the older wizard wasn't stopping for explanations: "Faith—head out and grab whatever small rocks and other throwable objects you can find. Keep moving, take any open shots you can find—and avoid anyone you see using _Avada Kedavra_: it's the one spell that I know that outfit won't help at all against. If you see the goblins or Magical Law Enforcement coming, see if you can keep the Death Eaters from noticing for as long as possible—they may have Portkeys and I want as many of them captured. . .or killed as possible. Be careful, Faith."

Faith nodded and darted away, with bright spells rending the air all around her as she ran towards an area strewn with small rocks. She felt as alive as she had ever felt in her life at that moment, and every rational part of her mind was telling her that she and Connor could survive this and get the job done. However, the part of her that she knew was ruled by her Slayer intuition nagged at her, and she quietly prayed that the goblins would be there soon to take over in the glory seeking department.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.

11


	12. Chapter 10

[Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART TEN

Voldemort uttered a fifty word incantation without a pause for breath and fell silent. The elaborately traced magic circle glowed brightly, then faded to a dull glimmer. The Dark Lord nodded in grim satisfaction, then cast another spell that caused his eyes to glow and his gaze to turn to a certain point on the wall. He stepped carefully into the center of the circle and raised his wand—pointing directly at the spot he had just identified. He hesitated for the slightest instant, then recited a ten word phrase in Latin that he had composed personally over the last few hours during the preparations.

Voldemort's wand glowed, and a shimmering wave passed away from its tip and struck the wall. The building shook, and Voldemort could sense the Fidelius Charm wavering a bit as the spell passed through to the outside, but the powerful spell quickly reasserted itself and the stronghold remained hidden. He collapsed to his knees, struggling to stay conscious. _When Potter is stricken and I can feel his agony. . .then I can rest._

The almost invisible wavefront sped towards Hogwarts, accurately homing in at a point to a precision that would make a magically astute observer assume that it was guided—that observer would be surprised to learn that it was not. . .at least for that moment.

* * *

[Excerpt from _Complex Incantations in Theory and Practice_, written by Padma Patil-Weasley and published by Archmage Press (2025)

_Multi-function spells have existed for well over a thousand years, but remain probably the least explored branch of complex incantations. The primary reason for this is Malar's Law, first described in 1857. The Law states: "Adding an additional primary function to a spell increases the power consumption of all elements of the spell by an order of magnitude." For example, suppose a blasting curse expends X amount of magical power, and a wizard wishes to create a curse that has both the blasting effect and also paralyzes a living target struck by the curse (assume for these purposes that the paralysis effect would also expend X amount of magical power if in a standalone curse). The hybrid blasting/paralysis curse would expend 20X [(10)X + (10)X 20X amount of magical energy, or X amount of magical energy would create a hybrid curse that was 5 (1/20) as effective at blasting and paralyzing as the root curses. Clearly, such a curse would not be very practical for dueling unless the wizard was very powerful, and even in that event other curses would probably be more effective. Obviously, a third element added to the same spell (say, an apparation effect) would drastically weaken each element again—meaning that even the most powerful wizard could not make it into a dueling spell, unless his sole interest was dueling with butterflies he wanted to blast, paralyze, and apparate for some reason. While ritual magic can deal with the power problem to a certain degree, even those advantages were once considered insurmountable for purposes that required both great power and a three or more element spell (for applications that require far less power per element—allowing five and even six elements with relative ease—see Chapter Nine "Nanomagic"). Oddly enough, the first major breakthrough in this area was due to the efforts of a wizard whose fame is largely due to far less useful deeds—the self-styled "Lord Voldemort," as the wizard Tom Riddle chose to be known as for the last forty years of his life. Faced with the need for a spell that could pierce the mighty wards of Hogwarts, home in unerringly on its target, and have enough energy to cripple or kill his target, he conceived of a spell design that revolutionized multi-element spells and which has had applications that have saved thousands of lives. It is ironic indeed that the reason that the Wizarding World has been able to benefit from this knowledge is that Riddle's brilliant spell design failed utterly to perform its function due to reasons that the Dark Wizard could have had no way of realizing until it was too late. . ._

* * *

Ginny spotted it first—she was high above the pitch, scanning the area below for a sign of the Snitch, and the shimmer of the spell caught her eye just before it struck the edge of the wards fifty feet behind the west goalposts. The wards flared with a crimson light, and bulged in slightly as the spell energy tried to bore straight through the shield. Madame Hooch blew her whistle—pausing the game and causing the Bludgers and the Quaffle to settle quietly to the turf—as the players turned to watch the display of power and the students and faculty in the stands murmured in concern and surprise. One witch was less overawed, and she stood immediately and stared intently at the area of contact for a moment before calling over her shoulder, "Professor McGonagall—that spell isn't acting like a normal ward-piercing curse: something is odd about it."

The Headmistress stepped to Hermione's side and directed her own sharp gaze at the interaction as she nodded and replied, "You're right—what's that odd glow behind the main contact point?"

Behind the glowing area where the spell was trying to push through the powerful magical barrier, a bright purple glow was forming—apparently being created by power from the spell being repelled by the wards interacting with energy drifting from the wards themselves. Hermione and McGonagall looked at each other for a moment, then noticed the general direction that the spell had been heading before striking the ward. Without waiting for authority, Hermione called out, "Evacuate this area immediately—that spell may have the power to break through, and it'll hit this place dead on if we're still here!"

McGonagall didn't waste time on ceremony. "She's right—out of here, now!" The wizards and witches filed out the back of the box quickly, heading down the stairs and gathering under a canopy as they watched the spell continue to build a massive amount of power in the purple glow. Once she had settled in, Hermione noticed that the spell didn't seem to be penetrating any better due to the glow; indeed, the spell seemed to be gradually disengaging from the ward, as if it was being pulled away by some force. Seventy-five seconds after the spell had struck the wards of Hogwarts, the purple light glowed more brightly than the setting sun for a moment, then burst as two crimson streaks of light zipped away from the Quidditch pitch at speeds that made "supersonic" seem rather inadequate as an adjective.

Hermione ran out onto the pitch and over to the edge of the wards, where she quickly cast a spell in the direction of where the purple ball of energy had been. Hagrid—who had been watching the game from the sidelines and was the closest to the scene—ran up and shouted, "What are ye doing, Hermione? What was that?"

"Don't have a clue, Hagrid—I just want to know where those bolts were going. If they hit any place with people--" Hermione broke off, her eyes widening as the spell gave her information. McGonagall—who had been close enough to recognize the gestures and the incantation—reached her prized student and asked urgently, "Where are they going, Hermione?"

"One headed south—it seems to be going towards a location in Western London. We should warn the Ministry immediately, if we're not already too late."

Ron—who had been watching the game next to Hermione—ran through the boundary of the wards and immediately Apparated. McGonagall nodded in approval and turned back to Hermione. "And the other one?"

Hermione frowned and forced down a shiver of fear. _That attack could only have come from Voldemort himself, and he only could have had one target in mind._ She swallowed hard and whispered, "New York City—and the trajectory seemed to be right at the subterranean wizard community there."

McGonagall nodded, and commented, "It appears we will have to break tradition and resume this match at another time. We'll meet in the Great Hall and settle everyone down. . .and after Ronald reports back perhaps you should slip away and check on. . .other matters."

Hermione swallowed hard. Part of her job in all of this was to keep Hogwarts safe, and Harry wouldn't thank her if she ran to him in a blind panic when there was other work to be done. Still, she looked to the West with profound regret before turning to join Professor McGonagall in the trek back to the Great Hall.

* * *

Voldemort had come upon a very simple method of thwarting Malar's Law while creating a spell that could both pierce the wards of Hogwarts and unerringly strike down Harry Potter wherever he might hide within those wards. He constructed a ritual spell that fully empowered both the destructive effect intended for his target and the ward-piercing element that would overcome the resistance that no degree of mere raw power could overcome—and a third element that he did not empower directly at all; as such, it did not trigger Malar's Law (as he had determined by experimentation with lesser spells beforehand). The third element was a homing spell, and it would be empowered by the energy being released as the two other elements attacked the wards, releasing raw magical power that could be funneled into the spell. Using the report of a spy within Hogwarts and a spell that allowed him to aim precisely at a distance, Voldemort was able to aim the spell so that it would strike the wards of Hogwarts near the Quidditch pitch, and thereby empower the homing element of the spell—which would literally pull the spell through the wards and into Harry Potter, no matter where he might hide within those wards. Of course, this plan depended on Harry Potter being exactly where all but a handful of people believed him to be—and the consequences of the faulty intelligence received by the Dark Lord were spectacular indeed.

Instead of pulling the destructive element of the spell through the wards, the building homing element gradually began pulling the spell away from the wards, keeping the destructive effect more or less intact as the ward-piercing magic dissipated itself. When the force reached a certain point, the entire spell—the mostly intact destructive effect, the remains of the ward-piercing effect, and the now massively empowered homing effect—disengaged from the wards and split to head towards the two locations it was being drawn to: Voldemort's lair (thanks to the part of the spell designed to allow Voldemort to feel Harry's pain, and which was in the actual event acting as a homing signal) and the subterranean wizard community in New York—where Harry Potter and Faith Lehane were fighting for their lives. The crimson bolts traveled at remarkable speed: it was only eighteen seconds before the first bolt found its mark in West London. The other one continued west across the Atlantic, uncaring of the fate of its sibling.

* * *

"I don't like this, Sev. He's gone off on his own before, but something about this makes me edgy. Something important is about to happen." Bellatrix Lestrange stared intently at Severus Snape—who was sipping his firewhiskey with a characteristically sour expression as he listened to the witch—and added, "We should find some way of contacting him, to make sure he's all right."

Snape rolled his eyes and glanced to make sure the privacy spell he had cast on the booth was still intact before he downed his drink and replied coldly, "Bella—he sealed himself inside his room with a spell that every Death Eater staying in the manor couldn't begin to break through barring a major ritual. The manor itself is protected by the Fidelius Charm and wards stronger than those at the Ministry of Magic and within an order of magnitude of those at Hogwarts itself—and unlike the Potter brat, I don't have a link to the Dark Lord's mind. He's as safe as he can be, unless he does something in there that can reach through all of those defenses and strike him down where he stands." He stood up and left some coins on the table as he gestured for Lestrange to follow him out the door. The manor was about a hundred yards away and in plain sight, and Snape shook his head and added, "But if it will somehow make you feel useful, we will go back and wait patiently outside the sealed door for his summons, knowing that nothing can possibly harm him--"

BOOM! The sound of the explosion reached their ears a mere split second after the burst of crimson light struck the manor, punching through the wards without hesitation and disintegrating the structure in a maelstrom of flying stone and wood that was—remarkably--contained completely by the wards except for the sound. Lestrange cried out and began to run forward, only to be restrained by Snape, who whispered sharply, "The Fidelius Charm is still intact, but we mustn't call attention to the area. Keep walking forward slowly." Lestrange looked furious, and Snape pulled out a quill and tried to write something on a piece of parchment before adding, "He's still alive—or I'd have become a Secret Keeper and could have written the manor's address down."

Lestrange nodded grimly, and they quietly slipped past the crowds of people looking for the source of the explosion, up to the edge of the property—where both could see that the residence had been reduced to a pile of rubble. No fire had started, and the spells designed to shut off the gas and electricity in the case of a cataclysmic event had clearly triggered properly. Snape waited for the street to clear, then cast Bubble-Head Charms on himself and Lestrange to deal with the dust in the air before stepping into the rubble.

There had been ten lesser Death Eaters in the manor along with Voldemort when Snape and Lestrange had slipped out for a drink—the other senior members were elsewhere on missions--and by the time Snape had led the way to where Voldemort's room had been, he had spotted the mangled remains of eight of them—he had no expectations of finding the other two alive. _Whatever it was, it doesn't seem to have burned any of the corpses: the dead were just torn to shreds by the fragments created by the explosion._ He walked past the point where the wall had been and cast a pointer spell directed at the phoenix feather core of Voldemort's wand. The wand glowed and pointed to a section of the rubble about seven feet in front of him—another silent spell caused the wood, plaster, and stone to part like water—revealing the faintly stirring form of the Dark Lord. Snape moved forward to pick up Voldemort, only to hear Lestrange shout, "Careful—he might be badly hurt! Moving him could be dangerous!"

Snape sighed in irritation and cast another spell—one that illuminated the inside of the wards: they shimmered fitfully, like a television about to blink out for good. He turned on the witch glaring at him and snapped, "Those wards are going to fall in less than fifteen minutes, and we'll be swarmed by Aurors—and the Dark Lord is in no condition to assist us with that problem. Fortunately, the destruction here is near total—there will be little evidence to suggest who survived or where we might have gone. However, we cannot linger—I have faith in his recuperative abilities, and he has no visible grave injuries. We must risk moving him outside the wards and Apparating to our reserve base."

Lestrange snarled, then nodded reluctantly as she admitted, "You're right, Sev—it's just disturbing seeing him like this." She glanced around at the devastation and shook her head, "It's remarkable that he's alive at all, given what happened to the others--" Her eyes fell on one of the bodies in the ruins, and she inhaled abruptly as she whispered, "He'll be rather angry about _**that**_ one."

Snape followed Lestrange's gaze and nodded grimly as he picked up Voldemort. "We'll break the news to him later." He carried the unconscious wizard over the boundary of the wards after placing a Disillusionment Charm on him, then—with a nod to Lestrange—Apparated away with him.

Thirteen minutes later, the wards and Fidelius Charm fell—leaving a pile of rubble, ten human corpses wearing Death Eater robes. . .and one very large, very dead snake for the Aurors to find.

* * *

The crimson bolt zipped west, gradually losing altitude until it intersected the waters of the Atlantic, causing a bright flash and boiling water around it as it continued at hypersonic speed. Gradually, the incredible energy of the spell was leeched away in the futile effort of boiling seawater, and by the time the spell reached a point one hundred miles east of Manhattan Island, the bolt had ceased to interact with the physical world—all that was left was energy that was slightly out of phase with the rest of reality and the homing element that kept that energy directly targeted at Harry Potter. Seconds later, the spell struck the seabed and vanished from the sight of the muggle world forever—though the odd steam hanging over hundreds of miles of open sea would be noticed and would occasion more than a few speculative scientific papers over the next two decades.

* * *

Faith laughed as a Death Eater threw himself behind a hedge with unseemly haste to avoid the rock she threw at him. Five minutes had gone by since she had separated from Connor and retrieved the rocks, and she had been doing more than her share to keep the Dark Wizards off balance and resorting to personal shielding spells to keep from being disabled by the projectiles. Every so often, she looked back at Connor and saw that he was still darting about the park with considerable agility as he continued to toss minor but annoying spells at his opponents. Faith felt an impulse of relief go through her—soon the Goblins and Magical Law Enforcement would be there, and they would have succeeded.

Faith would never know whether it was luck or a result of her intuition that had her looking in the right direction when something utterly unexpected happened. She saw a bright flash of light from the east as something seemed to penetrate the cavern wall and the interior wards that provided the illusion of the sky above the Wizarding community. A fraction of a second later, the anti-Apparation wards shimmered as something pierced them, and her eyes quickly followed the path just in time to see a sight that horrified her: Connor arching his back and uttering a strangled cry as his body convulsed: a small object was thrown away from Connor's left hand by the involuntary muscular action and shattered against a nearby boulder as he collapsed to the ground in a heap, his wand falling to the grass next to him.

Faith cursed. _That thing that went flying was the emergency Portkey he had ready: we're stuck here unless I can drag him free_ She ignored the laughing group of Death Eaters closing on her and ran over to Connor, quickly snatching up his wand and dragging him behind a nearby low wall for cover. She looked down at her friend only then, looking for injuries, and cursed again as she saw something that she had only seen in moving photos in Wizarding books and newspapers: a lightning-shaped scar that was oozing blood from whatever force had struck him. _Now! I find this out NOW? When we get back to the house you've got a lot of explaining to do!_

Harry Potter was unconscious at her feet, helpless to assist against the approaching rush of their enemies.

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	13. Chapter 11

[Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

PART ELEVEN

"What's the matter, little girl—don't you want to play any more?"

"Your friend didn't look so good—a few minutes under the Cruciatus Curse should perk him right up!"

"How about showing us what's under that dragon hide?"

From behind the wall, Faith could hear the taunts of the Death Eaters as they approached. She ignored the crude comments and concentrated on listening to the telltale sounds that would allow her to tell where the wizards were. _Five. . .no, six—all within about twenty-five feet of each other. If I had a grenade or an Uzi, they'd be toast._ Unfortunately, she had neither, and the stone wall was all too vulnerable to blasting curses that would leave both herself and Harry exposed to attack. That grim reflection triggered another thought that caused her to blink before stopping to visualize the area the Death Eaters were approaching from—there was a good-sized rock they were about to pass. _If I hit it with a Reductor Curse, it should throw off some shrapnel and hurt them—maybe they'll back off long enough for me to drag Harry out of trouble for long enough for the Goblins to get here. Worth a shot, anyway._

Faith took a deep breath, listened for the footsteps to approach the spot she had marked with her visualization, then popped up, leveled her wand, and bellowed "REDUCTO!" Even as the spell left her wand, she was already ducking, knowing that a hail of spells would be coming her way even if the spell did its job and wounded the wizards--

Her eyes had reflexively closed as she ducked, so she did not see the brightness of the spell she had cast, but the flash as the spell struck home was blinding even though she only saw it over the top of the wall and reflected from the trees—and the roar of the explosion deafened her momentarily. The wall cracked but held—the sound of footsteps had ceased. Faith listened and heard nothing moving nearby. With a growing sense of uneasiness, she stood and looked over the wall—and only the wave of dizziness that her sudden and profound weakness caused prevented her from vomiting at the sight in front of her.

The large rock that her spell had struck was utterly gone—replaced by a crater two feet deep and twenty feet in diameter. The Death Eaters had been flung away from the explosion and shredded by the rock shrapnel—all were dead. She could see the remaining four Death Eaters running towards the scene and shouting angrily, and she knew that she was not up to fighting off an attack from a determined kitten—much less four homicidal wizards. _Still—gotta give it a go before they get me. _She gathered herself and leveled her wand as she called out in a voice far less menacing than she would have preferred, "There's more where that came from—get the hell out of here before I send you back to your Master in a gravy boat."

They paused about fifty yards away from her, and the tallest one laughed and called back, "You don't look terribly threatening at the moment, my dear. That spell would have caused the Dark Lord himself to take a few moments to recover from, and you are not him. I'll be sporting, though—if you withdraw and leave that annoying friend of yours behind, we won't kill you."

For a moment, Faith felt a glimmer of temptation—if only because of what she suspected that Voldemort would do if he found out that his minions had voluntarily let the second Slayer escape yet again. _Nah—he'd be too busy partying over having grabbed Harry to worry about anything else. _She kept the wand leveled and snarled, "Not a chance, dickhead—the only way you'll get him is through me."

The Death Eaters laughed and walked forward without hesitation, and Faith was preparing to cast a Stunning Spell when she was blinded again by a sudden burst of fire in front of her. When her vision cleared, she gasped involuntarily—sitting on the stone wall was a beautiful red and gold bird that still glowed as brightly as a bonfire. The Death Eaters were still recovering from the blinding flash caused by the phoenix's arrival, and Faith prepared to press the momentary advantage by casting more spells.

As she opened her mouth to cast the first spell, the phoenix locked eyes with her and shook its head. Faith paused, and the phoenix inclined its head at Harry before looking back at her. Obeying her instincts, Faith reached down to grasp Harry's hand, then reached out to touch the magical bird.

The Death Eaters had recovered their vision, and cursed as the phoenix flared and vanished—taking the Slayer and her companion with them. They were spared the necessity of discussing how to break the news of their failure to their dark master when a hail of spells from the large group of wizards and goblins behind them separated them from their senses.

From his vantage point one hundred feet behind the strike force, Chairman Thrice-Gilded looked at the carnage left behind by the battle and frowned. _That phoenix would not have taken them away if Potter was still capable of maintaining his disguise—which would imply that Faith now knows the secret. I hope that all is well, for I cannot intervene without raising inconvenient questions._ He sighed in irritation and walked forward to confer with his warriors.

* * *

They appeared in the living room of Connor Galleon's home in California, and Faith immediately dropped to her knees and released both Harry and the tail of the phoenix. The room was spinning, and Faith was struggling to stay conscious when she saw two flashes of fire, followed by the phoenix depositing what looked like one of the Pepper-Up potions that Connor—_Harry, damn it—_had occasionally offered her after particularly tough workouts. She quickly opened the bottle and downed the potion, and the instant surge of energy caused her to relax in relief. She looked over at the phoenix gratefully and noticed that the bird was clutching another potion bottle in its claws and was looking at Harry with an expression that Faith interpreted as concern. Faith thought for a moment and remembered some of the news reports of Professor Dumbledore's death, and the stories that Harry had told her from behind his Connor mask. She smiled hesitantly and asked, "You're Fawkes, right?" The phoenix trilled in affirmation, and Faith smiled more confidently and said, "Thanks for bailing us out back there—should I give that to Harry?"

Fawkes trilled again, and Faith reached over and took the potion before reaching over and scooping Harry into her arms. She carefully laid him out on the couch with a comfortable pillow, then carefully pulled his jaw open and poured the potion down his throat. It went down smoothly without causing him to choke, and his skin turned several shades pinker, looking healthy. Faith sighed in relief, then peeled off his outer robes. Underneath the robes, he was wearing a black dragonskin suit that would not have fit Connor Galleon. _Must have been one of those Switching Spells he promised to show me. _She looked for signs of bleeding, but saw no injuries other than the bleeding scar. As she looked on, Fawkes soared over and perched on a post over Harry's head. After a moment, he blinked twice and tears fell onto the injury. The wound closed, leaving only the livid white scar and the smear of blood. Faith took some Kleenex from a nearby box and wiped away the blood, noticing that Harry was breathing easily. She looked up at the phoenix and winked, commenting, "Thanks, Fawkes—that would have come in handy a few times I can remember."

The phoenix trilled happily, and Faith stood and looked down at the sleeping wizard, shaking her head in annoyance as she muttered, "OK—the magic bird seems to think he'll be all right, but what do I do now? We're back in SoCal, and the only person nearby who could tell me anything is out like a light."

She went and retrieved a couple of blankets from the closet where they were stored and covered Harry gently with them before pulling a chair up next to the couch and waiting. If he didn't wake up in a few hours, she'd try calling Dobby and seeing if he had anything useful to tell her.

She had drifted off into thought when she heard a gasp, and turned to see a wand leveled at her from twenty feet away. The witch pointing the wand was about the same height as Faith, with deep brown eyes and a remarkable mane of curly brown hair. The expression on her face was one of pure fury as she snapped, "What are you doing here? What have you done to Harry?"

Faith felt a momentary burst of anger and an urge to attack, but her research served her well. "You're Hermione Granger—you're a bit scarier in person than the pictures in the _Daily Prophet_ made you look." Hermione blinked, taken aback by the casual comment, and Faith pressed her advantage: "As for what I've done to Harry, I just saved his life—with a bit of help from Fawkes over here."

Hermione noticed the phoenix for the first time and stared in surprise. Fawkes gave a friendly cry of greeting, then glided down from the post to nestle next to Harry. Faith saw the reaction, then shrugged and added, "Of course, he had already saved my life once, so I owed him—even if he was lying to me by pretending to be someone else until he passed out a little while ago. Do you have a clue about what might have happened there?"

Hermione stared at Faith, then over at Harry and Fawkes, and released the deep breath she had been holding before lowering her wand slowly and replying, "Yes, I believe I do. OK, I believe that you didn't hurt Harry—but who are you?"

Faith smirked. "Looks like I'm not the only one Harry was keeping things from." Hermione frowned in irritation, and Faith stood up and bowed slightly as she added, "I'm Faith—the Vampire Slayer."

Hermione scowled, though she didn't raise her wand again. "Try another one—everyone in the Wizarding World knows that Buffy Summers is the Slayer."

Faith rolled her eyes. "How is it that you people seem to know everything that the Great and Powerful B is up to, but didn't notice that there have been two active Slayers since the day Buffy took out the Master two and a half years ago?" Hermione's expression went blank, and Faith started speaking slowly and clearly: "Buffy drowns after the Master attacks her. Xander does CPR on Buffy and Buffy comes back and Slays the Master. Kendra gets Called because Buffy was dead for a few minutes. Drusilla kills Kendra and she doesn't come back. I get Called because Kendra died. All clear?"

Hermione's eyes were sparkling in fascination, and after a moment she smiled softly and commented, "That sounds far too convoluted to be a cover story—but could you show me--" Faith blinked, then nodded and peeled back a section of dragonskin to reveal a familiar mark on her skin. Hermione nodded in acceptance and added, "Thank you—perhaps you could tell me the whole story in more depth another time." Faith smiled in response, and Hermione's eyes fell on the wand holster at the Slayer's belt: "How did you get a wand?"

Faith glanced over at Harry—who was sleeping peacefully under Fawkes' watchful gaze—and nodded to the two armchairs sitting nearby as she replied, "How about we both take a breather and I'll tell you how I met the hero over there—and you can tell me how you knew to come here right now."

After a moment, Hermione nodded in agreement and the two young women sat down, with each of them shifting their seats so they could keep an eye on Harry. When they were settled, Faith coughed self-consciously and began: "It started when I noticed some people taking long steps in front of a door--"

* * *

"--seemed to take forever to get everyone settled before I could use the portkey that took me into the hallway outside this room. I heard your voice and burst in, and you know the rest."

Faith chuckled. "I'm glad you got here—I was feeling a bit clueless. Fawkes is a good friend to have around, but he's not big on conversation, you know?"

Hermione smiled sympathetically. Faith had spoken first, rapidly telling the story of how she had found High Way and met Connor Galleon, along with the training he had given her and their trip to the New York Wizarding community. Knowing that Hermione would have questions, she added a brief description of her history, going into the same depth she had when telling the story to Connor/Harry.

Hermione had perked up when Faith described the meeting with Thrice-Gilded. "I'm not surprised that Harry didn't know that story—I'm pretty sure I know the texts for History of Magic better than any Hogwarts student for the last ten years, and the incident is not mentioned in any of them. I know about it only because of some of my extra reading in the area of Magical Creatures--" Faith had smiled, and Hermione paused: "What's funny?"

"I'm thinking that you and Red would get along." Hermione had frowned, and Faith elaborated: "Willow Rosenberg. B's best friend. She's insanely smart and into the whole Wicca thing. You'd probably lock yourselves in a room for a week just to compare notes about magic and things that go bump in the night."

Hermione had smiled—accepting what was obviously meant as a compliment—before nodding for Faith to continue. Once the Slayer had brought her narrative to the present, Hermione explained how the mysterious spell had assaulted the wards at Hogwarts, only to be pulled away and split into twin bolts of doom: "I received word just before I came here: the bolt headed for West London struck a mansion that no one there could remember having seen before that day and reduced it to rubble. The bodies of ten Death Eaters and one very large snake were pulled from the smoking ruins." Faith had wondered slightly at the glimmer of satisfaction in Hermione's eyes as the witch mentioned the dead snake, but she did not pursue the matter. Hermione continued, "I knew the intended target for the bolt had to be Harry—and 'Connor Galleon' had been traveling all over the world. If I hadn't found him here, I would have Floo'd to New York and searched for him at the Wizarding community. I don't know if you could tell, but as angry as I was when I saw you, I was relieved that I knew I wouldn't have to find Harry's body at the bottom of a smoking crater."

"He got zapped pretty good by whatever it was, but I bet having to punch through all that water and rock took most of the juice out of that spell." Faith looked over at Harry, then shrugged: "Once I gave Harry that potion, Fawkes didn't seem to think anything was wrong other than that scar bleeding, and he fixed that with no problem." She looked closely at Harry, and remembered something she had seen on TV: "Looks like he's dreaming, and it doesn't seem to be bothering him."

Hermione glanced over at Harry and sighed in relief: "He has terrible nightmares at times—I'd hate to think of him having another one after such a shock."

Faith was about to reply when her stomach growled loudly enough for Hermione to notice and smile slightly. Faith laughed and asked, "How long has it been since--"

Hermione looked at her watch. "Three hours since the attack—an hour since I got here. We should probably eat something."

"I'd go for that." Faith was about to ask Hermione to call Dobby, but decided to try it herself. "Dobby!"

Dobby appeared with a pop as Hermione blinked in surprise. "Dobby is here, Miss Faith. What can Dobby do for--?" His gaze fell on Harry, and his huge eyes seemed ready to leap out of their sockets. Faith watched as the little house elf visibly went through a Herculean effort to come up with the right thing to say: "What. . .what is the great Harry Potter doing in the Special Operative's house? Mr. Special Operative should have told Dobby he was having such an important guest!"

Faith and Hermione looked at each other with expressions that blended amusement and affection, and it was Hermione who turned to Dobby and explained gently, "It's all right, Dobby. Faith knows. They had to fight a lot of Death Eaters and one of Voldemort's spells hit Harry during the fight and made him lose his disguise. Faith and Fawkes saved him and brought him back here. He'll be fine."

Dobby looked over at Fawkes—who seemed to nod slightly—and turned back to Faith as he cried out, "Miss Faith is a great and kind Slayer who saved Dobby's friend! Dobby will not forget this and will tell all House Elves about what you did!"

Faith shifted slightly in embarrassment. "He's my friend too, Dobby. I was glad to do it." Dobby beamed, and Faith added, "We're going to wait until he wakes up before Hermione goes back to Hogwarts—could you bring us some food and a table for in here?"

Dobby vanished and reappeared almost instantly with a small table and chairs, along with a pitcher of pumpkin juice and a Screwdriver—the latter of which he handed to Faith with a smile before popping out again. Faith sipped her drink, then turned back to see Hermione staring at her. She raised an eyebrow and asked: "Something wrong?"

Hermione shook her head in disbelief and replied, "House elves are terrified of Slayers—several of them have been killed by Slayers who thought they were hostile."

"I know. C—I mean Harry—told me about it. Sounds like Watchers did a crappy job of teaching their Slayers. I had a talk with Dobby, told him that I'd never do anything like that, and he was cool with it." Faith took another sip, and smirked at Hermione's continued expression of disbelief. "You know, just because I'm a Slayer doesn't mean I can't be nice to people who deserve it."

"You don't understand, Faith." Hermione stood up and paced restlessly for a moment before turning back to the Slayer and elaborating: "Faith. . .Harry rescued Dobby from a horribly abusive household after Dobby had caused him a great deal of misery in his good-hearted attempts to keep Harry from being killed by the creature in the Chamber of Secrets. I have no doubt that he'd lay down his life in an instant for Harry, but when he saw Harry helpless and revealed to you, his first instinct wasn't to protect Harry physically—which he is completely capable of—it was to try to protect Harry's double identity. His loyalty to Harry is absolute—but he clearly trusts you almost as much." She snorted self-deprecatingly, and added, "Probably more than me, given my misguided efforts to free the House Elves from slavery against their will and without planning for what would happen afterwards."

"Harry mentioned that while he was filling me on on the whole Harry Potter backstory—he said that he admired your goals but thought you should have talked to more house elves before you tried to do your plan; after all, they're people too and have a right to know what you had planned for them." Hermione flushed, and Faith chuckled and commented, "He thinks you're pretty amazing—you're the one who invented that spell that creates moving images of enemies who can fight almost like the real thing, right? Or does he have another 'very, very brilliant friend' who's been staying out of the papers?"

"Yeah, well. . .Harry talks too much." Hermione directed an affectionate look at Harry that belied her irritated comment before looking back at Faith and adding, "It's not just Dobby, Faith—I know for a fact that Harry had instructed Fawkes not to come to rescue him unless he called for him: if a phoenix was seen in proximity to Connor Galleon too many times it would raise suspicions, and there are probably hundreds of Hogwarts graduates including a lot of Death Eaters who would recognize Fawkes by sight. Harry told me that Dumbledore told him that it was Harry's loyalty to Dumbledore that caused Fawkes to come to the Chamber of Secrets and save him—I strongly suspect that it was your loyalty to Harry that brought Fawkes to you today." She looked over at the resting phoenix again, and Fawkes gave another brief nod before resting his head on Harry's chest and closing his eyes. Faith blinked, and Hermione chuckled as she concluded, "There it is—straight from the phoenix himself. Faith—I'm staying here until he wakes up, but unless he throws a hysterical fit at the idea of being alone with you, I'm going to leave here feeling that Harry is better protected than he's been in a very long time—and for that I would like to thank you with all of my heart."

Faith felt a moment of warmth for the young witch, and was about to say "Thank you" when an impulse of curiosity made her ask, "So. . .are there any sparks between you and the sleeping hero over there? I figured that clueless bitch Rita Skeeter didn't have a clue about what was going on when you guys were fourteen, but things can change in a couple of years."

Hermione sighed, and stood up and walked over to Harry. She brushed a wayward lock of hair that had obscured his eyes before looking back at Faith and replying, "Harry is a wonderful man who will make some lucky woman a magnificent husband if I have anything to say about it. That woman won't be me—he is my brother in everything but blood, and I am perfectly content with that state of affairs. There's plenty of time to worry about that sort of thing after Voldemort is gone for good."

Faith saw Hermione's eyes cloud over for a moment, and had a hunch that the other woman was thinking of someone in particular with regard to that time, but decided to leave well enough alone. She stood up and walked over next to Hermione, murmuring "I wonder what he's dreaming about."

Hermione blinked, and Faith saw a tear fall free as the witch whispered:

"I hope it's about happier times."

* * *

The wedding had been wonderful.

Harry walked quietly along the edge of the tent that had been erected outside the Burrow to hold the festivities—it had been warded with the Fidelius Charm as well as several other nasty wards that represented the combined ingenuity of Filius Flitwick, Minerva McGonagall, Mad-Eye Moody, and Remus Lupin (with Hermione listening intently and offering suggestions occasionally). The guests had arrived via Portkeys that were designed to whisper the location of the wedding (in the voice of the Secret Keeper, of course) into their ears when they were triggered by someone whose name appeared on the guest list—leaving them only a few steps away from the newly revealed venue. A substantial force of Aurors patrolled outside the Burrow itself—ready to deal with a mass Death Eater attack should it occur—but none had occurred: Voldemort had apparently decided to avoid an obvious and well-defended symbolic target in favor of building his forces further and engaging in random terror raids all over the Wizarding World.

The inside of the tent was charmed to reveal the lovely summer day outside—the tent itself was only visible from a few feet away. The guests had filed in, sat down, and watched as the wedding itself went smoothly—except for a moment when Bill's best man forgot what pocket he had put the wedding ring in as Harry, Ron, Charlie, Fred, and George snickered quietly—and as the bride and groom exchanged a kiss that provoked a loud cheer from the entire assemblage. After that, a wave of Arthur Weasley's wand caused the chairs and the podium to vanish, and there was enough food and drink to satisfy an army of gourmets—along with a roomy dance floor that was quickly filled to capacity. Harry was surprised and slightly embarrassed when he felt a tug on his sleeve and saw that Gabrielle Delacour—now eleven and about to start her first year at Beauxbatons—was corralling him for a dance. He had smiled and consented, and he had also danced with Hermione and Fleur—who whispered thanks in his ear for his gallant treatment of her sister. He had tried to catch Ginny's eye, but she seemed to be avoiding him, and he had a good idea why. _It's just as well—we both need to get used to being apart. _

Harry stopped and looked back at the others, and a smile crossed his face. His seventeenth birthday was a week away, and soon he would be in constant danger as he sought out the Horcruxes—but for this one day everyone he loved was safe and happy.

"Great party, Harry—the Weasleys know how to have a good time, don't they?" The voice came from behind Harry, and he turned to see a stunning brunette in a black dress. The woman grinned wickedly and added, "I wish I had been invited."

Harry stared as he tried to make sense of what he was seeing. "Faith? You weren't at the Weasley's wedding—how can--?"

"It's your dream, Harry—but yeah, that is kind of screwed up." Faith looked amused, and Harry was about to speak when she said, "Maybe you should wake up now."

Harry's eyes snapped open and he immediately registered that he was lying on the couch in his living room, and that Fawkes was nestled up next to him. His vision was blurry, and he took a moment to exercise his Metamorphmagus ability to correct his vision to normal. He knew that if Fawkes was there and resting, there was nothing immediately wrong.

"It's about time you woke up—I was starting to wonder what that potion was that Fawkes had me feed you." Faith walked next to the couch and sat down in a chair: her expression looked thoughtful. Harry frowned, and was about to ask Faith what had happened when her next sentence caused him to freeze in shocked silence:

"So. . .how are you feeling—Harry?"

Harry took a moment to count to five before he directed an annoyed look at the Slayer and replied, "Faith—we've known each other for several weeks now, and I would think that you would know my name by now."

Fawkes emitted a call that sounded suspiciously like a stifled chuckle, and Harry turned to give the phoenix another dirty look when he heard a very familiar voice say, "My father once told me that bluffing is pointless when you're playing with a marked deck, Harry." Harry turned and saw Hermione walking over to him with an amused expression. She pulled out a hand mirror and held it up to allow Harry to see his own perplexed expression. Harry blinked, and Hermione added, "Since you obviously do know Faith—and I've been presented with rather conclusive evidence that she isn't planning to do you in—I'm going to go now so she can tell you what's been going on, and so I can find out what's been going on in the two hours since I arrived here."

Harry looked over and saw the calculating look that Faith was giving him, then looked back to see Hermione watching him with a neutral expression. Harry didn't need to read her mind to read the message in her eyes: _You had a Slayer here and didn't tell __**me**__ about her! _He swallowed hard and grinned disarmingly before saying, "There's no need to run off, Hermione. I still don't know what happened."

"Lord Anagram tried to waste you with a spell, but he thought you were at Hogwarts—join the club, Snake-face—and that made the spell go bad." Faith spoke quietly, somehow managing to convey menace without raising her voice much above a whisper. "Half of the spell blew up a house in London and killed a bunch of those Death Eater idiots and a big snake." Faith noticed a similar reaction to what Hermione had displayed when the snake was mentioned, and resolved to ask them both what the deal was as she continued: "The other half blew through a zillion tons of water and rock and zapped you good and blew up your Portkey. I held off the Death Eaters until Fawkes showed up and got us out of there." Her voice quivered slightly, and Harry had an uneasy feeling that there was more to that particular part of the story as Faith concluded, "We got back here, and I found out that someone's been keeping a pretty big secret from me for weeks now—and Hermione showed up a couple of hours later and filled me in on what happened at Hogwarts while you slept like a baby and had what looked like some nice dreams. Anything you want to add, Hermione?"

Hermione shook her head. "Nice summary. Straight and to the point, and extra credit for not yelling." Harry shivered a bit, and Hermione sighed and walked over to the couch, where she leaned over and hugged Harry ferociously as she whispered, "You're in good hands. Might want to apologize, though; after all, she is quite capable of ripping your head off and using it as a football."

Harry swallowed hard again, and Hermione straightened and added, "I'm off—some of the others will probably be by to see you soon: Voldemort's attack has everyone in an uproar." She looked over at Faith—who nodded once—and reached into a pocket to pull out a small rag doll. She touched its button nose and vanished.

Harry stared at the spot where his best friend had been, and for a moment he was utterly at a loss regarding what to do next. He could see Faith standing quietly, her expression now as neutral as Hermione's had been. He thought furiously, and many approaches suggested themselves—but he rejected most of them quickly as requiring more charm or oratorical skills than he possessed. After a few moments, he sighed inwardly. _Might as well be direct about it. _He turned to face the irritated Slayer, extended his right hand, and met her eyes with a rueful expression as he said simply:

"Hello, Faith. I'm Harry Potter. It's very nice to meet you."

. . .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


	14. Interlude 3

Disclaimers, et al., can be found at the beginning of Part One

HARRY POTTER AND THE EXILED SLAYER

INTERLUDE THREE: ADVICE AND CONSENT

Ron blinked and stared at his girlfriend for several seconds before blurting out: "Harry was rescued by a WHAT?"

"A Slayer, Ron—and one who isn't Buffy Summers." Hermione sipped her pumpkin juice as she glanced over at Professor McGonagall and Professor Flitwick—who had been brought into the circle of those in the know at McGonagall's request and with Harry's blessing—to gauge their reactions. Both remained silent, though Hermione could see Flitwick's eyes dancing with fascination as she continued, "I spoke with her for some time while waiting for Harry to recover: Harry rescued her from some Death Eaters in California, and has been instructing her in the ways of our world—including taking her to New York to obtain a wand compatible with a Slayer's magical energy. She used that wand to protect Harry—killing half a squad of Death Eaters in the process—until Fawkes showed up and extracted them both from the scene." McGonagall's eyes widened, and Hermione nodded as she added, "Yes—Fawkes confirmed it, and so did Dobby in his own way."

"What does Dobby have to do with it, Hermione?" Ron sounded dazed—he had heard stories about Slayers from when he was very young, but the thought of one of them suddenly appearing in the life of his best friend seemed far-fetched at best.

Hermione smiled and called out, "Dobby!" The house elf appeared an instant later, and Hermione apologized, "I'm sorry if you were in the middle of something."

"Dobby was cleaning, but Harry Potter's house is already very clean—supper will not be for another two hours." Dobby turned to acknowledge the others in the room, and he bowed as he asked, "What can Dobby do for Harry Potter's friends and teachers?"

Hermione smiled, noticing that Dobby said "Harry Potter's friends and teachers" as someone might speak of royalty or a Quidditch star. She looked at the house elf with a gentle expression and explained, "I was telling the others about Harry's guest, Dobby—will you tell them what you think about Faith?"

Dobby straightened up and his huge eyes widened as he exclaimed, "Miss Faith is a kind and mighty Slayer who helped save Harry Potter! She is a friend of the goblins and has killed wicked demons and Death Eaters! Dobby has spoken to other house elves about Miss Faith, and they will protect her secrets as they protect Harry Potter's!" Ron, McGonagall, and Flitwick all blinked, and Dobby looked a bit bashful as he whispered, "Dobby is sorry for shouting."

"That's all right, Dobby—we're glad that Harry has a new friend who's helping him" Ron spoke quietly, inwardly shaking his head at the situations that Harry managed to get himself into. Dobby nodded eagerly, and Ron added, "What are they up to now?"

Dobby's expression changed, and the others had to look carefully to recognize the emotion on the house elf's face: mild amusement. "Miss Faith was. . .annoyed at Harry Potter for not telling her that he was Mr. Special Operative—said that it could have gotten them both killed. Harry Potter apologized over and over again and explained that he and you here were doing a very important thing that no one else could know about, and that he had to be careful that You-Know-Who wouldn't find out about it. Miss Faith scowled at Harry Potter, then told him that she'd figure out a way for him to make it up to her. Dobby does not know what she meant, but Harry Potter looked relieved."

Hermione frowned slightly, and Ron caught it immediately: "What did she mean by that, Hermione?"

Hermione sighed, then muttered: "Let's just say that we'd better not tell Ginny about Harry's house guest, unless you want the Bat Bogey Hexes to start flying." Ron paled, and Hermione turned back to the professors as she added, "But that's a problem I'm sure Harry can handle—right now I'd like to deal with the little crossfire that Harry seems to be caught in. Harry has enough Voldemort troubles on his own—he'll have even more now that Faith is in the Death Eaters' crosshairs."

McGonagall smiled slightly. "I received an interesting letter just before this meeting began—Remus is in Sunnydale with Rupert Giles and Buffy Summers. Apparently, Harry told him about what was going on before he left for New York. He was planning on staying there for some time—perhaps we could fill in an old friend on some details and have him compare notes with them."

Hermione smiled in return, and waited for the Headmistress to continue.

* * *

"So—you only lose one night a month? Cool."

Oz was sitting across from Remus in Giles' living room, and his eyes were uncommonly bright as he addressed the older man. Willow was sitting next to Oz, holding his arm supportively as she listened to the conversation between the two werewolves. Buffy, Giles, and Xander were in the kitchen, arguing over the finer points of Sunnydale takeout cuisine.

"Yes, but I gather that the transformation process is far less wearing on muggles than on wizards, Oz." Remus frowned, and continued: "Our magic holds down the change longer, but the days before and after the change leave us weak and sick, with or without wolvesbane."

Oz was about to ask another question when a loud knock came from the door. Remus looked at the couple on the couch and smiled as he called out, "I'll get it, Rupert!" He stood up and walked over to the door and opened it. His eyes widened and he exclaimed: "This is unexpected—please co-"

"Lupin—if you finish that sentence, I will hex you into next week!" Alastor Moody snarled, causing Remus to involuntarily give ground. Moody shook his head in disgust and walked in without invitation, shutting the door after him and turning on the visibly shaken younger man as he added, "Have you forgotten everything you know about this sort of place? I could have been a vampire and you were about to invite me in!"

"Um, you were standing in direct sunlight on the porch, sir." Willow called out from the couch. "That tends to make vampires go kind of flamey."

Moody scowled and turned to face Willow as he replied, "There are ways around that sort of thing, you know—suppose I was a vampire who found the Gem of Amara?"

"That Gem got toasted last week—Buffy took it away from Spike and sent it to Angel. Funny how keeping a thingie around that makes vampires unkillable makes vampires try to kill you and take it. He smashed it with a brick and sent Buffy the chunks as a souvenir." Xander had come in and was looking at the newcomer with a grin as he added, "I had to admit, that was pretty cool even if it was Deadboy doing it."

Buffy smacked Xander on the arm as she moved next to him and addressed the battered figure in the entry hall: "OK, fun story time over—who are you and why are you yelling at Mr. Lupin?"

"Good Lord—Master Auror Moody."

Giles' voice was a shocked whisper, and his young friends turned to see an equally shocked expression on his face. Moody looked over at Giles, and Remus was startled to see a smile on the ruined face as he replied, "Rupert, I know you're a bit long in the tooth to be calling me 'Uncle Alastor' these days, but I'm retired and have no patience for titles. Alastor or Mad-Eye will do just fine." Giles nodded, and Moody walked forward with surprising speed for a man with a pegleg until he was standing in front of Giles. He extended his hand, concluding: "It's good to see you, son."

Giles clasped arms with Moody, and Buffy had the distinct impression that Giles might have hugged the man if there had been fewer witnesses. She forced down a feeling of having intruded and cleared her throat loudly. Giles blinked, then turned back to the others with a mildly embarrassed expression as he said, "My apologies—this is Alastor Moody: Master Auror from the British Ministry of Magic—retired. He's an old family friend. . .my mother used to work for him."

Buffy blinked—she knew that Giles' mother had died some time back, and he had never been willing to talk about the circumstances. Moody seemed to divine Buffy's thoughts and gave Giles a pointed look; after a moment, Giles nodded once. Moody looked directly at Buffy and said, "Carolyn was the finest Auror I've ever trained—I recruited her directly into my personal team after her training was complete. We worked together for almost twenty years." He paused, and a look of sadness appeared on his face that somehow seemed to bypass the horrific scars as he continued, "We were on a patrol one night—we'd gotten reports of Dark Wizard activity in Hogsmeade, and we thought we were ready for trouble. We didn't expect that bastard Voldemort and twenty of his nastiest followers to come out of the shadows at us. We lost three Aurors to Killing Curses in the first ten seconds, and the rest of us retreated to cover. I had taken a curse to the leg--" he pointed to the pegleg, then added, "--and I was slowed down quite a bit. Carolyn took charge, just as I had trained her to—and she was magnificent. She brought walls down atop the bastards—she used Summoning charms to distract them as her teammates attacked—she saved two of our own with quick Healing spells that a Master Healer would be proud to have managed. Fifteen Death Eaters were dead before Voldemort decided to fight another day—but before he did he hit Carolyn with a terrible curse. . .one that slowly drained the life from her body in spite of everything the best healers at St. Mungo's could do." He swallowed hard and concluded, "I sent word to Rupert and his father, and they came quickly. . .just in time to say their farewells before she passed on. I gained many of these scars that day, but losing Carolyn has been the worst of them."

Giles shifted uncomfortably before murmuring, " I should have contacted you later, or spoken to you after the funeral. It wasn't one of my finer moments."

Moody snorted, "A teenager whose mother has just been murdered isn't supposed to be particularly rational, Rupert—he'd probably be less than human if he was. No, I should have contacted you, before your dire mood addled your judgment and you got into that mess with Eyghon." Giles flinched, and Alastor nodded grimly as he added, "Squib or not, if you had continued down that path we would have been dealing with each other on a far less friendly basis—glad to hear that problem was dealt with."

Giles managed a brief nod, then looked at the old wizard and asked, "Now that we've covered the past—what has you here in the present? This place isn't safe for wizards, even wizards of your caliber."

"There are recent developments regarding a certain Slayer that have caused certain persons I am in contact with--" Moody looked pointedly at Lupin, who nodded before the retired Auror continued: "--to wish to have your advice regarding how to proceed. Of course, the subject matter of this meeting is to be held completely confidential and not disclosed to anyone outside this room."

Giles blinked, then looked at the others one at a time—each of them nodded. Giles looked back at Moody and replied, "It seems we are all in agreement—I'll bring out more refreshments, and we can begin at your convenience, Alastor."

Moody nodded as Giles retreated to the kitchen, then noticed the dark-haired young man standing near him and peering at him curiously. He raised an eyebrow and commented, "Mr. Harris, isn't it? You've managed to make quite a name for yourself in the Wizarding World for a muggle with no hint of magical powers or formal training." Buffy stared in surprise, Willow beamed with pride for her old friend. . .and Oz studied the whole scene with a faint smile on his face as Alastor added, "You'd have made a fine Auror if you had magic—with a little more discipline than you get around here, anyway."

"Um, thank you, Mr. Moody." Xander was startled into politeness for a moment, then the whirling blue eye caught his attention again. "What can you see with that thing, anyway?"

Willow winced at Xander's blunt question, but Moody barked out a laugh and replied, "Quite a bit, actually. Losing an eye isn't pleasant, but this replacement has been more than adequate. If you ever find the need for one, let me know—there are charms that will hide one so that it can be used among muggles without drawing attention."

Xander smiled politely and replied, "Thanks, Mr. Moody—but if anything around here gets a good grip on me I'll probably lose a lot more than an eye anyway."

Buffy and Willow were in the process of opening their mouths to object to Xander's fatalism, but were interrupted by Giles' return with the refreshments.

* * *

Voldemort stirred and opened his eyes. The room he was in was dimly lit, and it took a moment for him to recognize that he was in the master bedroom of the secondary base that he had set up along with the one he had just been in. He quickly cast a silent, wandless lighting spell and illuminated the room. His body ached, and it took a substantial amount of effort to get out of bed and walk to the nearest mirror. He winced involuntarily: he could see burns and slashes that had been partially healed by potions, healing spells, and his own ritually enhanced regenerative abilities. He concentrated, using his hard-won sense of his magical state of being to evaluate his condition—and was appalled at the low level his power was at. _I'm still more than a match for most wizards, but I'm going to need months of rest to get back up to full strength—what happened? _

As if in answer to his silent question, a cloaked and hooded figure moved in the corner of Voldemort's vision. He whirled and hesitated only the moment he needed to make sure he would project the proper menace in his voice before snarling, "What am I doing here? What happened? Report immediately!"

The cloaked figure raised its hood, and Voldemort saw Draco Malfoy: his expression was absolutely still and he stood stiffly at attention. Voldemort masked his surprise at who his guardian was, and glared at the boy before whispering, "I'm waiting."

Draco swallowed once, and began: "My Lord, the stronghold in West London was destroyed thirty-six hours ago by a massive magical attack that blasted through the wards without warning. Potions Master Snape and Aunt Bellatrix were outside when it happened, and they brought you to safety here before the Fidelius Charm failed and revealed the wreckage."

Draco blinked nervously as the Dark Lord seemed to pause to take in the news for a moment before asking, "And why was I left here alone with only you as a guardian?"

"My Lord, Potions Master Snape and Aunt Bellatrix believed it would be wise to immediately gather the others until the source of the attack was determined." Draco was still visibly nervous, but he managed to keep his voice level as he continued, "Potions Master Snape was inclined to wait until you had awakened for further instructions, but Aunt Bellatrix overruled him—she said that I was well-suited to give you the news."

Voldemort suppressed a derisive snort. _I just bet she did. Bella is too ambitious not to be here if she saw some advantage to it—the news must be bad indeed if she's leaving the boy to bear the brunt of my reaction to it. I will have to have a talk with her later about childish attempts to manipulate me. _He thought for a moment, and a chill went through him as he asked, "How many died at the mansion?"

Draco shivered, but forced himself to answer: "Ten Death Eaters. . .and your snake, My Lord. The debris from the explosion killed them all instantly and wounded you gravely."

Voldemort's eyes widened, and he started to reach for his wand before realizing that it was not there. Draco flinched, but held his ground as the Dark Lord clenched his fists and bit his lip to prevent himself from screaming in rage. _Another Horcrux gone! _He stood there--breathing deeply and keeping his fists clenched—for fully twenty seconds before he locked eyes with Draco and whispered, "Your report is. . .appreciated for its accuracy if not its tidings. I hope that you never have to lose a cherished pet, as I lost Nagini in this incident." Draco nodded in acknowledgment, and Voldemort added in an apparent change of subject, "Is there any word of an incident at Hogwarts?"

Draco frowned at the seemingly odd question, then replied, "The Daily Prophet mentioned that the scheduled Quidditch match was interrupted by something that caused them to postpone the conclusion of the match—that's almost unheard of. There was a reporter on the scene, but he was rather vague on the details."

_Yes—I'm sure he was. McGonagall would have been sure to keep word of the exact circumstances quiet if she could possibly have managed it. . .meaning that the spell failed to breach the shield, and the disaster at the mansion was almost certainly due to backlash. I will have to study the implications of this before trying again. _Voldemort blinked, realizing that Draco had been standing quietly while the Dark Lord had been pondering recent events, and he smiled slightly as he decided to put off deep consideration of the failure of his plan until later. He considered the young wizard waiting for his command, and another thought occurred to him. _No use wasting time I can't use for anything else. _He locked eyes with the young wizard and ordered softly: "Draco, summon that chair over there and sit down." Draco blinked in surprise, but hastened to follow the instructions. When he was sitting in silence and looking at Voldemort with confusion visible on his face, Voldemort continued, "Draco, you were a capable student at Hogwarts—your inability to out-perform the irritating Miss Granger aside." Draco looked ashamed, and Voldemort dismissed the reaction with the wave of a hand: "Never mind that now—what is your personal theory about what happened at the mansion?"

Draco stared at the Dark Lord and replied immediately, "It seems very unlikely that it was an intentional attack by the Ministry or the Order of the Phoenix, my Lord. If our enemies had the ability to locate the stronghold in spite of the Fidelius Charm, they would have stationed Aurors in the general area of the mansion, so as to spot any known Death Eaters near the scene and apprehend them with overwhelming numbers. Potions Master Snape and Aunt Bellatrix would have been captured, and you would have been found unconscious in the ruins along with the bodies."

"That would have been. . .inconvenient." Voldemort commented dryly, as he realized that would have been his fate in any event had Snape and Bellatrix Lestrange been inside the mansion. _Fortune favors the bold—even when the bold overreach now and again. _He nodded at Draco and added, "If it was not an attack, what could have caused such a destructive effect?"

Draco frowned—his consideration of the puzzle outweighing his terror for the moment—and it was fully twenty seconds before he replied, "The power of the effect—blasting through some of the most powerful wards in existence without pause and pulverizing a reinforced mansion—could only be the result of a ritual spell conducted by a large number of wizards. . .or one wizard of inconceivable power. Professor Dumbledore probably could have done it, if he still lived—but he would have had to know where the stronghold was. That leaves--" He blinked again, and stopped in mid-sentence, suddenly too terrified to continue.

"Top marks, Mr. Malfoy." Voldemort smirked, then looked away from Draco as he continued, "I was conducting a ritual of enormous power, with the goal of penetrating the wards of Hogwarts and striking down Harry Potter before a large number of witnesses. For reasons I have not yet determined, it failed, and I believe one of the results of that failure was the destruction of the stronghold." Draco flinched, and Voldemort sensed the reaction and turned on him, whispering, "Are you shocked that I would admit failure, Draco? I spent over a decade as a wraith after failing to kill Harry Potter—he escaped my grasp on two other occasions since my return. And after each failure I have grown more powerful than I have ever been before. Failure is an opportunity to learn, for those who have the wit and patience to understand it—and it makes the inevitable final success all the sweeter." Draco swallowed hard and nodded in understanding, and Voldemort studied the young wizard as he continued, "Draco—I ordered you to kill Dumbledore expecting you to fail: I was displeased with your father, and I was unconvinced of your value to the cause. I expected you would be captured and sentenced to Azkaban—I believed the time you spent there before our inevitable triumph resulted in your release would have toughened you up, as it did your aunt."

Draco remained silent, and Voldemort nodded once before continuing, "And yet, you succeeded in the only part of the task that truly mattered—leaving Dumbledore helpless before his enemies. While Severus disregarded my direct instructions to you in finishing the old fool off, he furthered my interests and exploited your unexpected success. While your inability to deliver the killing spell yourself reflects a weakness in you, your ingenuity in bringing about Dumbledore's vulnerability makes it clear you have a future here, Draco. I have a mission for you."

Draco stared at Voldemort, and managed to stammer, "I—I--am at your disposal, as always, my Lord."

Voldemort grunted in approval and elaborated, "I believe that the destruction of the mansion was not the only manifestation of the failed ritual—I want you to use our contacts in the Wizarding media to examine the news of the past two days. Look for any incident—no matter how minor—that might suggest a destructive release of magical energy. . .and note in particular any individuals harmed by those releases. I have my own theories about what happened, but it is crucial that you investigate without any specific suggestions from me other than what I have told you up to now: the effects could be subtle and I need you to look for them with an unprejudiced approach. Do you understand me?"

Draco stood, then knelt in front of Voldemort as he replied, "Yes, my Lord."

Voldemort nodded. "Good lad. Now bring me a vial of essence of newt from your godfather's potions supplies, then get to work."

Draco darted away, and returned moments later with the vial and placed it on the nightstand by the bed. He hesitated, and Voldemort inclined his head at the door. Draco left quickly, trying not to look as if he was fleeing as he closed the door behind him.

Voldemort picked up the vial and downed its contents, grimacing slightly at the taste. The shock of the magical blast and the shrapnel from the explosion had damaged his regenerative abilities—the essence of newt combined with a few days rest would have him on the mend. His magic would take far longer to recover fully. _Time to worry about that problem later—and young Draco will serve me well during my recovery. _He settled back down into his bed, and closed his eyes. One last thought crossed his mind before he drifted back into sleep:

_You're up to something, Potter—and when I figure out what I'll use this setback to beat you once and for all._

. .to be continued

As always, comments are welcomed and desired.


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